Throughout
by roktavor
Summary: A mixed bag of shorts for Februabba 2019!
1. Warmth

**A/N:** Gonna do my best to write something for each day of Februabba (prompt list by **shoujojojos** on tumblr!).

Tbh, it's kinda nerve wracking for me to write-and-post without leaving something sit at least a week before editing it, so like. Bear with me here, and please excuse any poor quality, haha.

This's also a day late, so I'll post the first two days today. :'D

Day 1: warmth

* * *

"Why do we have to go out in this, again?" Abbacchio does-not-whine, glaring out the window at each snowflake in turn, because each one of them is playing a part in ruining his day.

"Because, Leone," Bruno's chiding tone is infuriatingly light as he tugs on his coat, "we don't get snow days in our line of work."

That's a stupid joke, the delivery far too chipper, and Abbacchio should roll his eyes at it.

…Only, when he lets his irritated gaze slip over to Buccellati, he just _can't_. There's a tiny sort of smile tugging at the corners of Buccellati's mouth while he does up his buttons, and that face is _always_ going to be Abbacchio's undoing.

"Besides," Buccellati continues, picking up a black scarf (that Abbacchio is pretty sure is his – not that he's about to ask for it back) to expertly wind around his neck, "it's not even that cold out."

Abbacchio grunts. His plan is to pout here by the window until the absolute last second. "Just wait until the snow gets us all wet."

It's absolutely not fair that Buccellati is the one who rolls his eyes, and it's _extra_ absolutely not fair that he's still smiling. What's he so amused about, anyway? What's there to be excited about wandering around outside in freezing temperatures?

"I don't mind. I think it's pretty."

"Pretty my ass."

There's a thoughtful hum from Buccellati. "Yes, that's also pretty," he says, nonchalant as he digs his gloves out of his coat pocket.

Okay, yeah, fair enough, Buccellati _must_ be in a good mood – but Abbacchio is _not_ going to let it get him flustered. He can't get off task. He's got weather to complain about and a cold walk to put off (and a blush to tamp down). "It's a shame I'll freeze it off if I go out there."

"I don't think that actually happens," Buccellati says, with a huff of laughter. His eyes are _sparkling_. Dammit. And he's finished bundling up. "I'm more worried about your fingers. Don't you have gloves?"

"I've got pockets," Abbacchio shrugs.

"Hm." Stepping in close, Buccellati uses one of his gloved hands to pluck one of Abbacchio's _un_ gloved hands out of its coat pocket hiding place. He rubs the long fingers between his own, brows furrowing a little. "You need gloves," he decides.

Not anymore he doesn't, with Buccellati sufficiently warming his fingers like that.

"So you admit it's too cold out there."

This time, when Buccellati laughs, his hot breath ghosts over Abbacchio's hand. And Abbacchio _almost_ manages not to blush – at least until warm lips press a couple of kisses onto his fingertips.

"Nice try, but we still have to investigate the pier."

"Fine." Abbacchio bends his fingers around Buccellati's hand, certain it'll do just as good a job as gloves would have. "You're thawing me out when we get back, though."

"Fair enough."

Now Buccellati's leaning up to kiss Abbacchio's _mouth_ , and wow maybe he won't need thawing after all.

It's kind of hard to freeze with a heart this warm.


	2. Relaxation

**A/N:** Aaand here's day 2: relaxation

* * *

No sooner does Abbacchio stumble inside than Buccellati is there, hands on his shoulders to steady him. Abbacchio doesn't even bother fighting the battle to stay upright, instead opting to let his head fall to rest in the crook of Buccellati's neck.

"Rough day?"

"Mgh," is about all Abbacchio can manage. Buccellati smells clean, and Abbacchio feels a little bit bad about smearing makeup all over him – but he's _exhausted_.

The hands that had been on Abbacchio's shoulders migrate, one of them moving to press against his back, and the other coming up to rub a thumb over his cheek.

"Come on," Buccellati says, tone gentle, "you should clean up."

Abbacchio gives another grunt, trying to make this one sound like a protest. He doesn't want to move. He wants to melt into Buccellati and stay here for the rest of forever, drowning out the world as he forgets about the shitty encounter with a former coworker that started his day on a downward spiral of misery.

A downward spiral of misery that has, apparently, made his feet carry his begrudging body all the way to Buccellati's place for a visit so unannounced that _Abbacchio_ hadn't even known it was happening until he was here.

In the middle of the night, no less.

With Abbacchio looking an absolute mess and having no real idea why he's here, except maybe a base desire for comfort? Which he doesn't deserve, by the way. Least of all from Buccellati, who's perfect and beautiful and bestowed upon the uncaring earth by a cruel god and yeah maybe Abbacchio has had a _couple_ drinks today.

"Leone." Oh, now Buccellati's hand is petting his hair. "You need to shower, and then go to bed."

Hm, no. Abbacchio thinks that skipping the shower and just collapsing into sleep sounds like a much better idea, but Buccellati is already dragging him toward the bathroom, so he doesn't get the chance to complain.

When the water hits him, some of the fog lifts away from Abbacchio's mind, and a drawn out sigh escapes him.

So. Here he is, in Buccellati's shower. After a pretty pathetic display. And his clothes are off, meaning Buccellati undressed him. No makeup either, so Buccellati had taken care of that as well.

The fuzzy, affectionate feelings that are spreading through Abbacchio's chest settle awkwardly against the cold dread of past memories. He feels too full and hollow all at once as he shoves his face into the shower spray, drenching his hair. _That's_ nice.

There's a knock on the frosted glass door, just as Abbacchio's body starts to feel like his again.

"Do you want company?" Buccellati sounds unsure, but Abbacchio can tell that the offer is genuine. (Even if Buccellati _probably_ only hung around out there to make sure that Abbacchio didn't drown himself on accident in his half-aware state.)

"Yeah," Abbacchio answers, because he doesn't want to be _alone_ – hell, that's what drove him to Buccellati's apartment in the first place, he remembers now.

After undressing, Buccellati slips in, and his arms immediately wind around Abbacchio. Somehow, he's just as warm as the water, ten times as comforting, and heaps better at sapping tension. Especially so when he presses a kiss to Abbacchio's cheek.

"Want me to wash your hair?" and it's halfway an offer, halfway an assumption based on _why the fuck would Abbacchio refuse something like that_.

Abbacchio nods, of course, even though he _knows_ that Buccellati has plenty of his own burdens. He _knows_ he's already one of said burdens, even without bringing his shitty, low moods into the fray. He _knows_ that he'll be better in the morning no matter what, _probably_ –

But he also knows that this caring atmosphere feels good, and he's too tired to push it away.

* * *

 **A/N:** It's messy, sorry. My fingers and I had very different ideas about what direction this should take, bc it was only supposed to feature stressed-out!Abbacchio, not depressed-out!Abbacchio, but here we are, uh,

(…Does it even still fit the prompt?)


	3. Date Night

**A/N:** Day 3: date night!

* * *

"Leone, please stay out of my room," Buccellati mumbles, not bothering to open his eyes. He can hear the door shut, though, and footsteps coming towards his bed, as Abbacchio blatantly disregards his order. It figures.

"And I told you," Abbacchio says, and from the sound of it he's right next to Buccellati now, "that it's still date night, and I'm still going to spend time with you. Whether you want me to or not."

Oh, well, that's not fair.

It's not that Buccellati doesn't _want_ Abbacchio around, after all, it's just that: "You'll catch my cold."

The bed dips, and Buccellati tips off of his side and toward the new weight on the mattress, too tired to bother correcting his position. Never mind mustering the energy to push Abbacchio away and kick him out.

In fact, the urge to so much as tell him to leave again is fleeting right now, especially so when cool fingers brush over Buccellati's sweaty forehead, unsticking his bangs.

"Don't care."

Yes, that much is obvious by his absolute refusal to leave under any circumstances. Buccellati only got him to go away in the first place because his cellphone had rung in the other room, and now it seems his luck has run out.

…Still, worrying over passing his miserable cold along and the urge to curl around the comforting shape of Abbacchio are two very different things. His fever addled brain is winning here, and Abbacchio is taking advantage of that with his gentle hands. Said hands are now busy working the tangles free from Buccellati's hair.

"That was Fugo on the phone, by the way."

"Mm?" Buccellati isn't feeling his most eloquent, what with Abbacchio soothing his headache and lulling him to sleep all at once. Which is nice. He has trouble sleeping with his nose as stuffed up as it is.

"Yeah." Dexterous fingers slip down to massage the back of Buccellati's neck as Abbacchio speaks. "He wanted to make sure you didn't forget it if we went out, since Narancia lost his again."

"S'probably in his room…."

A snort of laughter from Abbacchio. "Definitely." His hand moves on to rubbing Buccellati's back, now, with firm, circular strokes that sufficiently warm any chills away.

What Buccellati did to deserve this, he'll never know.

"Fugo's making you his grandmother's soup, by the way. He insisted when he found out you were sick."

Oh, that's sweet of him. (Though it's funny how Abbacchio makes it sound like they had a casual conversation about it. Buccellati's sure it went more like Abbacchio grouching because he was pried away from Buccellati's side, and Fugo snapping back because that's just what Fugo _does_. Somewhere in there soup was discussed, most likely with heavy handed jibes about cooking skills on both sides.)

"He'll probably bring it over later tonight, but for now you should rest."

"And you should get out of my room," Buccellati tries one last time, because Abbacchio is still stubbornly sitting here, fingers sweeping patterns into his t-shirt, and there's no reason they should both get sick.

Abbacchio makes a noncommittal humming noise, which Buccellati is pretty sure means he's _not_ _leaving_. He does stand up off the bed, though, and Buccellati's eyes flutter open to watch him.

Abbacchio is only gone for a moment, only as long as it takes to borrow pajamas from Buccellati's dresser and get changed. Then he's right back again, and before Buccellati can protest, he's climbing into bed next to him.

"You're definitely going to get sick now," Buccellati warns. It's paid no heed, however, and Abbacchio actually snuggles in _closer_. His arms slip around Buccellati's waist, wrapping him in a hug that pulls him flush against Abbacchio's chest, and despite himself he relaxes into the comfort.

Abbacchio leans up a bit to drop a kiss onto Buccellati's temple before lying back down. "It's date night, and this counts as a date, so _shh_."

And Buccellati wants to ask if it'll _also_ count as a date when _he's_ the one stuck nursing _Abbacchio_ back to health – but between the soft lips working the back of his neck, those warm hands rubbing over his ribs, and that chest rising and falling with each breath against Buccellati's back….

He's asleep before he can form the words.


	4. College

**A/N:** I went from having zero ideas for this day to this one being the longest so far ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

A couple La Squadra cameos herein,

Day 4: college

* * *

"Switch me roommates."

Abbacchio only blinks at the blond stranger in front of him.

Well, alright, he's not a _complete_ stranger – Abbacchio's seen him around in the dorm hallways, and is pretty sure he rooms next door, but that hardly counts as knowing him. And now he wants to just show up and demand favors…?

"Excuse me?"

"I _said_ ," asymmetrical blond hair is flicked over one shoulder, "switch me roommates."

Not that Abbacchio has any real qualms about getting rid of his shitty roommate, but Ghiaccio is so awful that he feels obligated to ask, " _Why_?"

Apparently impatient, the blond guy huffs. "Because, my roommate is boring as hell – yours seems a lot more interesting."

'Interesting' counts to describe Ghiaccio, Abbacchio supposes, but he wouldn't say it's the good, 'I'd definitely like to move in and share a space with this guy' type of interesting. It's more the bad, 'I would cross the street to avoid breathing the same air as this guy' type of interesting.

He himself tends to give Ghiaccio a wide berth. Despite rooming together for a month now, he still has no idea what his roommate is majoring in. Something with language, maybe, if his rants are anything to go by.

Anyway. If blondie over here wants to take a chance on that, Abbacchio isn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

"So? What d'you say?"

"Sure."

x

It doesn't occur to Abbacchio until he's moving his stuff over that he has no idea who his new roommate is.

By this point, though, it's too late to ask questions, and there's no way that whoever it is can be worse than Ghiaccio – especially since Melone (the blond, he's learned) had described them as "boring".

What Abbacchio absolutely _isn't_ prepared for is to walk in carrying his last armload of stuff (mostly consisting of his pillow, which he had to wrestle away from Ghiaccio, god knows _why_ ), only to find the _most attractive man he's ever seen_ seated at one of the desks.

Head bent over his work as it is, Abbacchio can tell just from his profile that he's a real looker. Tan skin, strong jaw, haircut that would look hideous on anyone else, thick, fluttering eyelashes…and he's a smart dresser. Clearly Abbacchio's new roommate. He must've come back within the five minutes Abbacchio had been out arguing over pillow ownership, and he stands up when he hears Abbacchio enter.

The closer he gets, the hotter he gets, and Abbacchio can feel himself kicking into ill-advised crush mode with each step. " _Boring_ " Melone calls him. _Yeah fucking right_. Abbacchio could spend hours just _looking_ at this guy.

"You must be Abbacchio," his as-of-yet-unnamed roommate says, and his friendly tone doesn't match up with his neutral expression, but it's _not_ _bad at all_. "I'm Bruno Buccellati."

Abbacchio can't even form words to respond.

Just stands there hugging his pillow like an idiot.

x

Buccellati, as it turns out, is heaps better than Ghiaccio. Hell, he's better than any roommate Abbacchio's ever had. He doesn't stay out late, doesn't stay _up_ late, doesn't nitpick the hours that Abbacchio keeps, doesn't nose into his private life, doesn't rant at all hours, is far more polite in general, happens to be extremely easy on the eyes….

They get along pretty damn well, Abbacchio thinks (unless that's wishful of him and Buccellati is only being polite).

The only problem is Abbacchio's ever-growing crush that he's struggling to hide after only a week spent in close quarters.

…By the sound of it, though, things are going much worse next door. Abbacchio will take his probably-extremely-noticeable crush on a roommate too kind to say anything over nightly shouting matches any day.

It's currently one in the morning, and Ghiaccio and Melone are yelling at each other again, top volume. With no regard for neighbors. From where he's lying in bed, though, Abbacchio can't tell if they're fighting or fucking, and he's too afraid to listen carefully to figure out which it is.

In that same vein, he doesn't want to go over, pound on the door, and demand they be quiet. Melone didn't seem the type to have any qualms about public indecency, which is something Abbacchio does not need.

Even if the tradeoff is being unable to sleep because of all their damn _noise_.

Buccellati must have it even worse, Abbacchio thinks – his bed is right along the wall on the Ghiaccio/Melone side.

He can probably tell whether they're fighting or fucking, the poor man.

Lost in his thoughts and the noise as he is, Abbacchio misses the squeak of a shitty mattress, and the soft scuff of feet over carpet –

–So he nearly jumps out of his skin when Buccellati pokes him in the shoulder to get his attention.

"I don't want to be awkward," Buccellati starts.

Which is uncalled for. Because nothing he does could ever be awkward, Abbacchio doesn't think. Not even with exhaustion painted clear on his face. Not even at one in the goddamn morning with his hair all mussed.

"But," Buccellati continues, "it's…hard to sleep with them making so much noise, and believe it or not it's a lot quieter on your side of the room, so…" he trails off for a moment, and wow, he does seem a little awkward after all as he tucks and untucks his hair from behind his ear. "Could I share with you, just for tonight?"

Stuck in shock, Abbacchio just stares up at him for a moment.

It's really a no brainer in the end.

But.

That doesn't mean he isn't short circuiting at the idea of having the object of his affections so close. The _very obvious_ object of his affections.

"Yeah," Abbacchio figures he better fucking answer already instead of staring like a creep, "yeah that's fine." It's more than fine, actually, but Abbacchio isn't about to _say_ that. Instead he just inches over, making as much extra space as he can on the tiny twin mattress.

"Thanks," Buccellati breathes, looking relieved. The dark of the room makes it hard to tell, but Abbacchio swears there's a _blush_ spreading over his cheeks as he picks up the blanket and slips into bed.

There's very little room left between them, and Abbacchio can feel the warmth of Buccellati's body from here.

"N-no problem."

* * *

 **A/N:** And they were roommates...

(...Hey, since Melone's hair is blond in the manga and lavender in the anime, d'you think he dyes it? Bc I completely forgot he wasn't blond in the anime somehow so pls excuse him being blond here, uh. That's what he and Ghiaccio are yelling about in the fic. They're dying Melone's hair. At 1am.)


	5. Rainy Day

**A/N:** Ok, this one also got away from me length-wise. Sorry.

Day 5: rainy day

* * *

It's been overcast all morning, so the rain _shouldn't_ catch them off guard – but for some reason neither of them thought to bring an umbrella on their romantic stroll through the park.

So, yes, the rain is a _very_ annoying interruption during their previously peaceful walk home. So much so that Abbacchio stops in place to scowl up at the sky. Stupid clouds. Stupid fat raindrops and their increasingly torrential downpour. Mood killers.

Even as Abbacchio stops, though, Buccellati must speed up, because his hand wrenches in Abbacchio's as he's jerked to a halt along with him. Oops. Abbacchio stops glaring at the sky and opens his mouth to apologize, but Buccellati is faster.

"A little rain never hurt anyone," he says, eyes full of something that might be _amusement_. He gives a couple of gentle tugs on Abbacchio's hand. "But we should hurry home before we get soaked."

"Too late for that," Abbacchio grumbles, because this rain just _had_ to be the type that drenches you on impact.

Still, he takes off running at Buccellati's coaxing – and it's actually _fun_ , running from the rain hand in hand with Bruno. Abbacchio never thought he'd ever describe running around looking like a pair of drowned rats and nearly eating shit on the slippery pavement every two seconds as _fun_.

Must be the company.

…And then there's the way Buccellati flashes little smiles as they go, the type that Abbacchio can't help but return. It makes him happy, to see Buccellati this content.

(Yeah, it's definitely the company.)

Despite their best efforts to dodge raindrops, the two of them are thoroughly dripping by the time they get home. Abbacchio wants nothing more than to dry off, and change clothes (and mooch cuddles). But also….

Also, he sorta really wants to kiss Buccellati right about now. It's the smiles that did it. And that one soft _laugh_ when Abbacchio had nearly tripped them both up climbing the front porch stairs. He's in so deep.

A million clichéd lines about kissing in the rain are running through his head, and there's something charming about Buccellati with his hair all plastered down, clothes clinging to him, and the mood is lighthearted and warm despite the chill of the rain.

So he goes for it as soon as they're inside: he backs Bruno against the wall and pushes his own mouth to that pleased little grin.

Buccellati hums into the kiss, one of his hands working its way into Abbacchio's wet hair to press against the base of his skull and draw him closer. The other is on Abbacchio's chest, cold fingers toying with the lacing of his top and rubbing at his cleavage.

It's got Abbacchio trembling already, from both the cold as well as a steadily growing warmth between them.

Pulling back for half a moment to better realign their lips, Abbacchio catches sight of brilliant blue eyes watching him. Why the fuck is Buccellati so _wonderful_.

Those eyes slip closed as the kiss resumes, though, and Abbacchio feels his own follow suit.

He grabs at Buccellati's hips, pushes him into the wall, groans into his mouth. Wants him _closer_. Buccellati's response is eager, his hand on Abbacchio's chest slipping inside of his shirt to rub over a nipple as he tilts his head with the kiss.

And Abbacchio shudders _again_ , pulling back for a breath. Holy hell. There's heat pooling in his abdomen, stubbornly overriding any remaining chill.

His hands rove up Buccellati's sides, tugging at his sopping shirt before his arms wind their way around his back. Like this, he can hold Bruno even _closer_ and kiss him _deeper_ , and plush lips part for him when he tongues at them.

God, Buccellati is lovely. He's solid and warm, despite being drenched to the bone – even his hands have warmed up, pressed to Abbacchio as they are.

And he's still feeling up Abbacchio's chest, so Abbacchio swaps to a series of slick, open mouthed kisses as he spreads his legs, dips his hips, and _grinds_. Buccellati arches against him, a soft " _Oh_ ," escaping him somewhere between kisses, and Abbacchio can't help his moan of agreement.

Sparks shoot through him, landing in a pile in his stomach, and he feels it heating him all over. From what he can tell, Buccellati is just as hot, panting against his mouth as the both of them pause for a moment.

It's a little uncomfortable, sure, clothes soaking wet and sticking too tight in too many places. Plus they're dripping all over the entryway floor. Never mind the wall that Abbacchio's got Buccellati pinned to.

But Abbacchio is finding that he cares less and less about all of that, with a thoroughly aroused Bruno in his arms, lipstick smeared over his face.

"Leone – "

Buccellati's voice is a breathy mumble, and it stokes the flames inside of Abbacchio. He leans back in, pressing a line of kisses over Buccellati's cheek and down his neck, leaving a faded trail of black lipstick as he goes.

" _Bruno_."

Breath hitching at the sound of his name, Buccellati's hands slide up, wrapping around Abbacchio's shoulders, holding him in place.

 _Fuck_. Abbacchio kisses his way back up, mouthing over Buccellati's pulse, loving the way it spikes under his lips. He presses in _closer_ , _tighter_ , _more_ , sufficiently pinning Buccellati to the wall with the length of his own body. Their hips align again and Abbacchio _whines_.

A soft noise escapes Bruno's throat, too, and he's nudging at Abbacchio's face with his own. Taking the hint, Abbacchio shifts back a little –

–Only for Buccellati to bring his legs up, wrapping them around Abbacchio's waist.

" _Fuck_ ," Abbacchio breathes, arms moving to support Buccellati's weight as he hikes him up a little higher, pushing him against the wall to stabilize. The heat of Buccellati pressed to his stomach is an undeniable turn-on, as is the way he tips Abbacchio's head back and devours his mouth.

For a dizzying moment, Abbacchio lets himself be kissed. Buccellati is thoroughly exploring his mouth, hands running warm over his jaw and neck, and his hips keep up a slow grind against Abbacchio's abdomen.

It's just on the nice side of maddening, and the constricting wet clothes don't help – by now, they're making this steamy in the worst way. All Abbacchio manages is to hold Buccellati steady and squeeze at his ass now and then, but it's not like he _minds_ this change of pace _at_ _all_.

"Bedroom?" he asks, when they come up for air a moment later.

"Mm," Buccellati agrees, stealing a chaste kiss, pupils blown wide. "We should dry off."

Abbacchio hefts Buccellati, peeling him off of the wall that he's a little stuck to, intent on carrying him upstairs. "Get out of these wet clothes?" he offers.

"My thoughts exactly."

* * *

 **A/N:** Realized I haven't been saying this, so:

Thanks for reading!


	6. Injury

**A/N:** Day 6: injury

(I promise this eventually fits the prompt.)

* * *

"You don't have to stand there all night, Abbacchio."

"And _you_ don't have to stay up working all night."

"I'm not working," Buccellati tells the agitated presence at his back, "I'm filing."

There's a soft sort of rustling from behind him as Abbacchio shuffles around, grumbling to himself. "That counts as work."

Buccellati doesn't have time to get sucked into one of these arguments, so he carries on with his organizing. Abbacchio's concern is much appreciated, of course, but it's not like Buccellati can just leave these jobs undone – it's bad enough that he's procrastinated on it this long.

"Even _Mista_ is in bed," Abbacchio implores.

With a sigh, Buccellati sets aside the papers he's sorting. He turns in his seat, and there's Abbacchio, a little behind and to the left, where he's been impatiently waiting for an hour now.

Not that Buccellati asked him to.

Buccellati hadn't asked him to bring up dinner, either, but he had also done that, earlier. And eaten with him. And then cleared away the dishes.

…It might not be fair that Abbacchio is standing there, demanding Buccellati go to bed, but. It feels nice to be taken care of and looked after. Something about specifically _Abbacchio_ doing so sets an entire cacophony of feelings aflutter in Buccellati's stomach, too.

He knows what these are, these feelings, and the way Abbacchio's looking at him right now absolutely doesn't help. That grumped up frown that doesn't do much to hide genuine concern.

Grumped up frown beneath a _full face of makeup_ , that hypocrite.

"You don't look like _you're_ planning on going to bed anytime soon," Buccellati points out.

"Someone has to stay up and make sure you take care of yourself," Abbacchio says, apparently before he can stop himself, if the way he blushes is any indication.

And ah, there go Buccellati's butterflies again, raising a fuss. His heart isn't much better, jumping right along with them. He really must be tired. "That someone is you, then?" It comes out much softer than Buccellati had intended, the words steeped in fondness.

(Still, he doesn't want to take it back.)

"I…" Abbacchio seems even more flustered now, clearing his throat and glancing away. "You hauled me out of the gutter so I could be useful, right?" he jibes. Nice save. "I'm just trying to live up to that."

In truth, Buccellati had hauled Abbacchio out of the gutter because they needed _each other_.

Because Buccellati had needed a team, and he wanted reliable people with good hearts to keep him afloat in this mire of a business he's stuck in. Because Abbacchio had needed somewhere to go, and Buccellati could help – _wanted_ to help.

Turns out his gut instinct was right, when he had read about Abbacchio. All of that justice fueled fire is still there. Abbacchio has more than lived up to expectations.

Not that Buccellati will ever be able to say any of that out loud. It makes his ears burn just thinking about it – his mind _really_ runs away from him when he thinks too long about Abbacchio.

All he can say in the end is, "Thank you," trying to make it sound lighthearted.

Abbacchio frowns at him. "…You're not going to bed anytime soon, are you?"

Somehow, Buccellati can't help but grin in return. "No," he says, turning back to his work because smiling in front of Abbacchio is an overwhelming endeavor. (For some reason. His eyes shine too much when he sees Buccellati smile. Surely it's not that rare or special…?)

"You need rest," Abbacchio insists. And he's _right_ , but:

"I also need to finish this. Giorno's come up with a new filing system," one that involves turning the most important paperwork into plants for security purposes, "and I need these in order so that it can be implemented as soon as possible."

He can almost feel the irritation rolling off of Abbacchio at the mere mention of Giorno. (And even _that_ is endearing.) "I don't see why that can't wait until tomorrow morning."

"Your concern is sweet, but –"

"Please go to bed," Abbacchio blurts, voice tight and sounding flustered, probably by the word ' _sweet_ '.

And okay, in all honesty, Buccellati hadn't meant to let that one slip. Great, now he feels like blushing, too. Better just keep sorting these papers, head down. Familiar banter only, but not _too_ familiar. A crush? What's that? "Are you giving your capo an order?"

More bristling from Abbacchio. "Orders don't usually start with 'please'," he grumbles.

"Well," Buccellati starts, but doesn't get far before one of the papers catches on his finger, and he cuts himself off with a hiss. There's a thin, barely there line of red on his fingertip, stinging with a vengeance.

Abbacchio, of course, is at his side in an instant. "What happened?"

"Just a papercut," Buccellati says, frowning down at it.

"Let me see."

Before Buccellati can insist that he's fine, or remind that he's had much worse injuries than this, Abbacchio's rough, warm fingers grab his palm and bring his pointer finger up close for examination. He scrutinizes the tiny cut for a long moment, and Buccellati feels the warmth of Abbacchio's hand seep through his own, down his arm, and straight into his heart.

His heart, which immediately picks up the pace when Abbacchio brings the injured fingertip to his mouth and _kisses it_.

"Ah –"

"There," Abbacchio says, squeezing Buccellati's hand once before gently releasing it, "all better." His usually pale face is bright red, and Buccellati is afraid he isn't faring much better. "Now go to bed before you hurt yourself worse."

Blinking between Abbacchio's face, and the black smudge on his finger, Buccellati is too pleasantly stunned to refuse. "Okay," he winds up saying without a thought.

And Abbacchio looks so relieved that he can't bring himself to go back on it.

* * *

 **A/N:** One day I'll write BruAbba w/o careening off topic in one of their heads. Plot twist, _I'm_ the one with too many feelings.

Thanks for reading!


	7. Friendship

**A/N:** Warning for alcoholism/alcoholic behavior(?) in this one.

Day 7: friendship

* * *

"I'm not easy to be friends with," Abbacchio grumbles, slumped on his couch and feeling sorry.

"I know," is all Buccellati says. He's in the kitchen right now, throwing away the swarm of empty wine bottles he had just gathered up, as well as the half empty one he'd pried out of Abbacchio's hand only a moment ago.

Abbacchio, for his part, feels like shit. Some of it is _maybe_ due to the alcohol in his system, sure – but it goes deeper than that. A full bodied ache aided by thoughts that won't leave him alone. The usual.

…Speaking of things that won't leave him alone, here comes Buccellati out of the kitchen, methodically turning the rest of Abbacchio's apartment upside down in search of a hidden alcohol stash.

And Abbacchio isn't about to stop him. Maybe Buccellati will give up once he finds the decoy stash under the bed, or maybe he'll search further and find the one at the back of the bathroom cupboard, too. Doesn't make much difference.

Right now, Abbacchio's too busy wondering why the hell Buccellati is even bothering.

If he knows that Abbacchio isn't an easy person to befriend, why does he keep trying anyway?

Why doesn't he take the easy way out and just…leave him to his misery? That's what normal bosses do, right? But Buccellati seems to be dedicated to making sure Abbacchio doesn't drink himself into a stupor, or waste away in general.

Okay, so maybe that last point is due to the fact that Abbacchio is _probably_ more useful to the gang if he's not constantly drunk.

But that still doesn't mean that he isn't…y'know…replaceable? Plus he'd been drinking and wallowing when Buccellati recruited him, so if he sensed this kind of trouble coming, why did he even invite Abbacchio along in the first place?

Ugh.

Buccellati is _nice_ and that's _good_ but Abbacchio wants to know _why_.

Thinking about it so much is making his head pound, so Abbacchio slides down until it's cushioned along the back of the couch. It doesn't really help. His mind won't shut up.

And – _and_! It's not like he can outright ask Buccellati about any of this either. That'd either get him no answer - or worse, one that's too honest and catches him off guard in some way. Right now he's too tired to handle either scenario. And he feels sick.

He can hear Buccellati in his bedroom, now, along with the clink of bottles as he supposedly pulls them out from under the bed. These, too, are methodically emptied and trashed before Buccellati goes back to searching.

Abbacchio stays put all the while, listening and watching when he can, his fogged mind busy running itself in confused circles.

Eventually Buccellati does find the few bottles tucked away in the bathroom, disposing of them accordingly. And he must be satisfied that that's the last of it (it is), because now he's in front of Abbacchio, standing there with square shoulders and stern eyes.

"No more alcohol," he demands.

Abbacchio grunts. It didn't work the last time Buccellati had ordered it, and it probably won't work this time. Not even the guilt of knowing that he's disappointing Buccellati is enough to stop him, and even makes things _worse_.

He just wants to be numb for a little while, to forget, is that too much to ask?

"Abbacchio." Buccellati is closer now, his hands pressed to the couch on either side of Abbacchio's head as he forces eye contact. "No more."

Stomach cold, Abbacchio swallows, tries to form actual words. "I'll try." And he _will_. He _wants_ to.

That seems to satisfy Buccellati, and he stands back up. "You should clean up, too. We have a job tonight, and I need you."

Abbacchio thinks there might be an unspoken 'if you're up for it' tacked onto that, but he can't be sure. Something about Buccellati's tone isn't as harsh as it should be. But it works – especially those words, that simple ' _I need you_ ' is all it takes for Abbacchio to sit up straighter.

"Meet me at the restaurant in two hours," Buccellati says, in that same almost-soft voice. He pauses for a moment, looking Abbacchio over – and then he walks away, heading for the door.

As Abbacchio watches him go he's still wondering, "Why…?"

And whoops he hadn't meant to say that out loud, hopefully Buccellati won't catch it –

No such luck. Buccellati's already stopped, and is turning to look at him, head tipped in that way he does to show he's listening.

So now Abbacchio _has_ to fess up.

"Why do you bother?" he asks, words spilling out. "I think I'm pretty fucking hopeless. You can't be that desperate for help."

"You're not as bad as you think," Buccellati says, almost before Abbacchio's finished speaking. There isn't a hint of placating tone; he says it like it's a fact, like it's a definition read from a dictionary.

Abbacchio doesn't know how to respond.

"Besides," Buccellati resumes his walk to the door, his back to Abbacchio, "I care about you. You're part of my team."

Then he's gone, and Abbacchio is left alone with too much to stew over.

For once, that idea doesn't fill him with dread.

* * *

 **A/N:** I promise tomorrow will be fluffy again, uh. This one was difficult for me for personal reasons but I was stumped for ideas until my sister said "Just do pre-relationship," and then I wound up with this, ahaha

Thanks for reading!


	8. Music

**A/N:** Day 8: music

* * *

Tiptoeing down the stairs, Buccellati makes a beeline for the soft music coming from the kitchen.

When he pokes his head inside, he already knows pretty well what he'll find - and sure enough, there's Abbacchio at the kitchen table, nursing a glass of white wine with the lights off. In his pajamas and without his makeup he looks less severe, even though he has that serious set to his mouth that means he's thinking.

The CD player on the table is on at a low volume, and it's only because he's spent so much time around Abbacchio that Buccellati recognizes the work of Claudio Monteverdi.

Altogether it's a more peaceful atmosphere than Buccellati had been expecting. His first worry when he woke up to find Abbacchio gone was that he was somewhere brooding, buried under bad memories and hunched with their weight. But this…this feels lighter than that.

"Can't sleep?" he asks, stepping inside.

Abbacchio's eyes snap from where they'd been contemplating his wine to blink up at Buccellati, and the corners of his mouth ease up into an almost-but-not-quite smile. "Yeah," he says, "sorry if I woke you up."

"You didn't," Buccellati assures with a shake of his head. "And besides, I wasn't asleep for very long in the first place." As usual, he'd crawled into bed hours after Abbacchio had given up on coaxing him there. Now it seems the script has been flipped.

"You should go back to sleep, then." There's something like amusement in Abbacchio's eyes as he speaks.

"Only if you'll come with me," Buccellati says, because Abbacchio took all the body heat with him, and he can't possibly sleep without it.

He's rewarded by that almost-but-not-quite smile twitching into a real one, and golden eyes shine. Picking up his wine glass, Abbacchio takes a sip, watching Buccellati with a raised eyebrow. "When I'm done reminiscing."

That statement seems a little pointed, which gets Buccellati thinking that _maybe_ this song sounds familiar…? All of these compositions tend to sound the same to him, though Abbacchio can name them off like nothing, and doesn't seem to understand that Buccellati _can't_.

Moving around the table, he sidles up next to Abbacchio and leans into him; he's still sleepy and Abbacchio is warm. He tangles the fingers of one hand in Abbacchio's hair, playing with it. "Did we dance to this one?" he guesses.

"Mm." Abbacchio relaxes against him, his head tipping back to make eye contact. There's warmth and fondness there. "After our first date."

Buccellati's heart skips a few beats at that look – he remembers, of course. If not this specific song, he definitely recalls stumbling around with two left feet while Abbacchio _laughed_ and attempted to lead him, to no avail.

Mostly, he remembers the laughter. And how lovely it was to see Abbacchio so carefree.

There's something downright sappy about the memory. Buccellati treasures it, as well as the way that Abbacchio is sitting here content in the dark as he mulls over such a happy thing…. Bending a little, he presses a lingering kiss to Abbacchio's forehead.

Abbacchio makes a pleased noise, eyes fluttering closed and melting to Buccellati's side for the remainder of the song.

And Buccellati just watches him, fingers stroking through Abbacchio's hair, his heart threatening to burst as it wells with affection. "If I'm going to stand here and reminisce with you," he says as the next song starts, "then…." Letting his hand slip free of Abbacchio's hair, Buccellati leaves his warmth to pop open the CD player.

Abbacchio watches him go, brow furrowed in mock offense. "You don't like my music?"

"To each their own," Buccellati says, flashing Abbacchio a smile and noting the way it _still_ makes him blush. He plucks his preferred CD from the little stack they keep next to the player.

"I swear, Bruno," Abbacchio faux grumbles, "if that's –"

The beginning of Pharaoh's Dance comes trickling out of the speakers, and Buccellati turns the volume up a notch. "You don't like my music?"

Abbacchio snorts out a laugh at that, not looking like he minds the soundtrack change overmuch, no matter how he complains. "Monteverdi is better," he says, lighthearted.

Circling back around the table, Buccellati slips behind Abbacchio's chair this time, wrapping his arms around broad shoulders and curling around him. "'Bitches Brew' is a classic album, and you know it."

"Just because you listen to it all the time…." There's a smile in Abbacchio's voice, and one of his hands comes up, fingers brushing along Buccellati's forearm.

Buccellati presses his lips to the top of Abbacchio's head, dropping a kiss onto his hair and catching the scent of his shampoo. Time for him to take a turn at nostalgia. "And we listened to it on repeat all night as we talked, that time we had business along the coast, and stayed in my old house."

"I remember," Abbacchio murmurs, sounding fond.

Between the late hour, the songs full of peaceful memories, and Abbacchio's proximity, Buccellati thinks he might just fall asleep where he stands. More than that, though, he's overwhelmed with affection, and can't help but press a kiss to Abbacchio's temple, his mouth lingering.

It's just as he's thinking it that Abbacchio says it:

"I love you."

* * *

 **A/N:** Thank you, Araki, for giving them canonical favorite musicians. Even tho it ruined my Spotify algorithm. :'D

That aside, this one gave me trouble, which is why I'm posting it so late. It feels generic, and I just, can't get the tone I want out of it. Words aren't working for me today. But I gotta let it go and post regardless, bc I promised myself I would so! Here!

Thanks for reading!


	9. Wedding

**A/N:** Day 9: wedding

* * *

"Hey, when you and Buccellati get married, can I be your best man?"

Abbacchio knew, the second he and Mista had shown up to the restaurant at the same time, that he would get sucked into some kind of ridiculous conversation. They seem to be Mista's forte, he's noticed, especially around mealtimes. And typically they're food related. So he hadn't been too worried about entertaining Mista for the few minutes before the others showed up, but.

Little had he fucking known. That Mista would just. Throw _that_ at him.

Blushing and scowling all at once, Abbacchio doesn't even have to turn his glare on Mista to be able to tell how amused he is with his own assumptions. Or whatever led him to ask that.

Still, Abbacchio gives him that glare anyway, even if it does nothing to wipe that aggravating smirk off of Mista's aggravating face.

"What the _fuck_ are you talking about?" Abbacchio thinks he might be better off putting his headphones on and drowning Mista out with music, but his curiosity and bewilderment get the better of him.

"Y'know," Mista waves a casual hand, tipping his chair back on two legs as his smirk goes lazy, "for the wedding."

No, Abbacchio does _not_ know. There absolutely is not a wedding, and Abbacchio is steadfastly ignoring that little voice in his head that taunts him with the fact that actually yeah he'd like one someday, because that's _fucking impossible_.

He shouldn't keep this conversation going any longer, seeing as Mista is clearly out of his mind, but somehow Abbacchio opens his mouth and words fall out of it. "What wedding?"

"The one you and Buccellati are gonna have someday," Mista says, matter-of-factly.

Abbacchio wants to strangle him. "Why the fuck would that happen?!"

All four of Mista's chair legs settle back on the floor, and he props his elbows on the table, still looking far too pleased with himself. "So you _don't_ want to marry him?" he asks, the absolute bastard.

"What kind of question –"

"'Cause your crush is kinda obvious to me. And Fugo knows, too, I think." Mista drops that bomb with an impish grin on his face.

What does he mean 'obvious'? That has to be a bluff. There's no way any of the others have caught on, and they should mind their own damn business anyway. If Abbacchio is harboring a very definitely unnoticeable teeny tiny crush on Buccellati, then it's between him and himself.

And as such, he'll deny it publicly to the best of his ability.

"What the hell? I don't –"

"Don't worry, I won't tell anyone else," Mista assures, winking conspiratorially. "As long as I can be your best man."

"No." Abbacchio realizes that in his haste to shoot down that idea, he's probably played right into Mista's hands. Because this implies that _yes_ he has a crush, and _yes_ he secretly deep down maybe a little bit wants to marry Buccellati. "You can't, because –"

"Why not?" Judging by the expression on Mista's face, he thinks he's won this one on some level, so Abbacchio makes another attempt at damage control.

"Because I don't," he starts, and the lie sticks in his throat for some reason, haha that's weird, " _don't_ like Buccellati that way."

Mista's face goes dubious, and he reaches over to pat Abbacchio's shoulder. "Sure," he says in a placating tone.

Abbacchio growls at him, swatting his hand away. First the announcement from Buccellati that they're meeting to welcome a new member, now _this_. Today is not his cup of tea. "I _don't_ ," he insists. He's gotta get Mista off of his back before the others show up, and this becomes a family affair.

"Okay," Mista shrugs, and Abbacchio doesn't even have time to think that he's given up awfully easily before he's talking again and ruining it. "But _hypothetically_ speaking, if there's ever a wedding –"

Oh, _fine_ , fuck it – Mista's just snapped Abbacchio's last nerve. "I'd pick Narancia over you or Fugo, because he's the only one who isn't _delusional_ about my feelings for –"

"Did I hear my name?" As if summoned, Narancia appears, traipsing over to the table and taking an enthusiastic seat that almost topples his chair. "What're we talkin' about?"

For a moment, Abbacchio is afraid that Mista will just drag him right on into the 'pick on Abbacchio about his crush on Buccellati' party, but all he says is: "How you're Abbacchio's favorite."

Which is nearly as bad, but only _nearly_. Caught unawares, Abbacchio is half afraid to protest out of fear that it would lead the conversation back to the original topic.

Fortunately, Narancia doesn't give him time to say anything, anyway.

"HA!" Narancia points a finger at Fugo, who had followed him in at a more sedate pace. "In your face, Fugo! I told you he liked me better than you!"

"Oh please," Fugo grumbles, slapping a workbook down on the table as he sits down. "I don't care about Abbacchio liking me."

Rude little shit, Abbacchio thinks.

"Anyway, we have a little time before Buccellati gets here, and you slacked off studying earlier, so we're doing it now."

"But _Fugo_ –"

" _No_."

Rude little shit as he may be, Fugo's subject change moves him up a slot on Abbacchio's favorites list. He can have Mista's spot, since he's still giving Abbacchio that irritating, _knowing_ look.

Shoving his headphones on and turning his music as high as it will go, Abbacchio does his best to shut everything else out. Including (and especially) his own thoughts, which are taking _plenty_ of unfortunate turns, thanks to Mista and his _dumb questions_ and _baseless accusations_.

* * *

 **A/N:** This oneshot was brought to you by the word 'fuck', and ridiculous barebones dialogue scribbled down at 2am,

Also I'm sorry it's late, I had an unusually busy day today.

Thanks for reading!


	10. Shopping

**A/N:** Day 10: shopping

* * *

Sifting through a rack of tops with blinding colors, a particularly garish orange catches Abbacchio's eye. He pulls it out, and the pattern nearly makes his eyes bleed, so of course he holds it up to show Buccellati.

"Bruno," he says, and Buccellati glances up from where he's browsing across the aisle. He makes a face when he sees the long sleeved abomination, which means Abbacchio is correct in his assumption that, "Narancia would wear this."

"We're supposed to be shopping for you, remember?" Buccellati reminds him, even as he takes the hanger from Abbacchio and drapes the shirt over his arm with the other things they're intending to buy.

None of it is for Abbacchio, despite the fact that, yes, this is whole shopping trip is on account of him. Unfortunately. "I'm a lost cause," he laments.

"No you're not," Buccellati says, going back to his search, "you're just picky."

And yeah, okay, _maybe_ – but Abbachio is only being picky because he, _unfortunately_ , needs to add color to his wardrobe. A significant amount of color. Against his will. It's cruel and unusual. "It's not my fault I don't look good in any color besides black."

"You look great in plenty of colors," is all Buccellati says. In one statement, he's both given Abbacchio a compliment to fluster him _and_ shut down every argument except the most childish ones. Damn him.

So Abbacchio settles for grumbling to himself as he rejects every option in the store. He does, however, find a pink fur thing that Trish will love, and some ugly beanies for Mista, and nearly chokes on his own laughter when Buccellati shows him a pair of pants riddled with _square_ holes and just says "Fugo."

All of these are added to the growing stack on Buccellati's arm, but none of them do anything to help him with his color predicament.

Two hours into this shopping trip, and he's getting pretty frustrated. He can tell that Buccellati is just as irritated with Abbacchio as Abbacchio is with life right now, because they've turned this store upside down _twice_.

But again: it's _not_ Abbacchio's fault that he hates wearing not-black, or that Buccellati got himself invited to a party at some eccentric capo's house whose only stipulation is that _guests only wear bright colors_.

"Why don't you just ta –" Abbacchio bites his own tongue on that question.

"I don't want to take anyone else as my date, Leone," Buccellati deadpans, raising a brow at him.

That right there is why Abbacchio stopped himself from finishing his sentence. The thought only crossed his mind in the first place because he's stuck in this store with shitty fluorescent lights and _not allowed to wear black_ – but he _does_ want to go _with_ Buccellati.

So much that he can feel his face heating up at the word 'date'.

Buccellati must take pity on him standing there all red faced and at a loss for words, because his expression softens a little, and he reaches up to tuck a strand of white hair behind Abbacchio's ear. "We'll find something," he says, hand resting on Abbacchio's shoulder for a moment. "And we'll have to buy you some new lipstick, too…"

And then he's off again, apparently intent on turning the store upside down for a _third_ time. Abbacchio is surprised at how little his own feet drag as he follows. Physical contact with Buccellati, plus the prospect of shopping for something that's not clothes are both excellent motivators.

…Which Buccellati probably _knows_. Agh. Abbacchio is so content to be played like a fiddle by this one man in particular.

"I'm wearing blue, if that helps," Buccellati says as Abbacchio catches up to him at the racks. "And white."

 _Shit_ , that'll bring out his eyes. And compliment his skin tone. The excellent motivators just keep coming – Abbacchio rather suddenly can't wait for this party.

Determination to find something to wear rising, Abbacchio goes back to browsing bright garments. This just might not be so bad after all, is what he's thinking – and then he comes across something so damn hideous it has no right existing.

It's a jean jacket, he thinks, but it's so embroidered and patched with tacky roses that there's hardly any denim left. He must make some kind of noise of disgust, because Buccellati comes over to peek over his shoulder at it.

"This is the worst thing I've ever seen," Abbacchio announces, wrinkling his nose. "It reminds me of…" he can't even say it.

Gently, Buccellati takes it from him and adds it to their pile. "It'll look nice on him, and you'll be mad about that," he says, giving Abbacchio the tiniest knowing grin, "but Giorno will be happy you thought of him."

Abbacchio scowls. "Hmph. That ugly jacket is what he deserves."

That smile widens, and Buccellati tugs on Abbacchio's elbow, veering him in the direction of a different rack. His eyes might even roll in amusement. "Come on, I keep telling you we're shopping for _you_ – stop finding things for the others."

Unfair assumption. It's a complete accident. Not Abbacchio's fault. "You're the one who found Fugo's new pants," he points out.

Buccellati hums the affirmative, and then says: "I'm going to dress you in pastels."

* * *

 **A/N:** ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

Posting whatever-this-is earlier than usual to make up for the past two days!

Thanks for reading!


	11. Family

**A/N:** Day 11: family

* * *

Buccellati's shoulders feel unnaturally heavy as he rolls out of bed today, and one glance at his desk calendar tells him why. Three years since his father died…it feels like a lifetime ago and just yesterday all at once, somehow.

Shouldering grief is something Buccellati is accustomed to. Most days he has too much work to do – too much to worry over – for morose thoughts to slip in and dominate. But some days…

Some days are harder than others.

All it takes this morning is one dark thought to set the rest falling in like dominoes. Trying to push them all to keep standing is futile, since the first one tipped, and every time his eyes are pulled to the date on that calendar it starts all over again.

He forces himself to look at the clock to find that almost fifteen minutes have passed with him standing here, in his pajamas, spacing out. Which isn't ideal. No matter the date, he still has a full day ahead of him, and he has to pull it together.

So he gives himself a mental shakedown, and then goes to get dressed.

Predictably, his thoughts follow. Shedding his pajamas and donning his suit, his body moves on automatic, mind preoccupied.

Memories of his father pile up next to today's to-do list and make the world seem like altogether too much. Worries over his mother and her current well-being crop up, he'll have to check in on her soon. And then there's his team….

…His heart is too full, probably, for this line of work, and still very much beats for the people he cares about. (He'll never manage to shut it down completely – not that he wants to. He'd rather have a broken heart than go without.)

There's no way he can protect them all, or even always be there to help them, and his father's death is a grim reminder of that.

Buccellati realizes that he's buttoned his suit jacket up one off, sighs, and undoes it to redo it with heavy fingers. This time he makes sure to watch his hands as he does. He _has_ to snap out of this.

This line of thinking won't get him anywhere good – but when he looks in the mirror, he remembers every family friend who had told him he looks like his father, and.

He sighs again, more weighed down this time, as he smooths out his clothes. His eyes seem blank even to himself.

At the end of the day, his father was just another in a long line of people who wound up with a fate they didn't deserve. Someone else Buccellati couldn't help. That'll always happen, he knows, but….

His focus now should be the people he has left. The jobs he has left. Self-appointed and otherwise.

There's a knock on his door, and Buccellati is grateful to be tugged out of his own head.

"Come in."

It's Abbacchio, of course, almost as if he can sense Buccellati's low mood. He steps inside without preamble, and there's a furrow between his brows, his gaze locking on Buccellati immediately.

Yeah. He can definitely tell. Buccellati knows what Abbacchio's going to ask even before he opens his mouth.

"Are you alright?"

Instead of unloading a lot of depressing thoughts that don't make much sense on someone who typically brightens Buccellati's days, he carefully schools his expression into something he hopes is less blank. "I'm fine."

Abbacchio huffs out a short sigh. He doesn't seem to buy it - but then, he rarely does. "Everyone else is already waiting downstairs for breakfast. You're never the last one ready."

Has Buccellati really wasted that much time lost in his own head? The clock tells him yes, and he can't help but frown at it. He really, _really_ needs to pull it together today. "Sorry," he says, "I'll be right down."

Leave it to Abbacchio to continue to see right through him; he's standing in front of Buccellati almost before he can turn back to his mirror. "You're sure you're okay?" he asks, voice soft.

"Yeah." Keeping up the lie can't hurt, right? It'll be true eventually, he just needs a little longer to compose himself. "I'm fine."

"Hm," Abbacchio says, still not even pretending to buy it. He reaches for a strand of Buccellati's hair, rubbing it between his fingers. "Your hair isn't even done yet."

Buccellati tucks said hair behind his ear, pulling it free from Abbacchio's fingers. "I'm just running a little behind this morning."

"Rough start?" And it's so genuine of Abbacchio, that tone of voice, and he looks almost dejected as he lowers the hand that had been playing with Buccellati's hair.

 _You have no idea_ , Buccellati wants to say. Instead, he gives a noncommittal shrug.

Still, Abbacchio seems to understand. Of course he does. He must read something in Buccellati's eyes (no matter how he tries to avoid eye contact).

"Here, let me." Picking up Buccellati's hairbrush, Abbacchio hauls the desk chair over and Buccellati allows himself to be eased into it.

Abbacchio gets to work brushing Buccellati's hair out, then. It shouldn't take long, because Buccellati's hair isn't, but by the feel of it, Abbacchio is taking the time to be thorough. Every knot is diligently worked out, every strand attended to, his scalp is even massaged – and somehow, through it all, Buccellati's unoccupied mind doesn't tip back towards despair.

Abbacchio's hands are practiced and gentle, and Buccellat's eyes close on reflex when they move on to braiding. He doesn't pull, soft strands yielding to his fingers and moving the way he wants.

With him so close, it's hard for Buccellati to think about all he's lost.

What he might lose someday is a different story, but Abbacchio's hands are so steady in their work that it's hard not to trust them to stay.

Those golden clips are last, and Buccellati's eyes flutter open as Abbacchio fastens them.

"There," Abbacchio mumbles, making one last minute adjustment. "All done."

When Buccellati stands up, his legs feel pleasantly heavy with relaxation rather than weighed with concern. A quick inspection in the mirror proves his hair to look pristine as usual, maybe more so. He can see Abbacchio behind him, watching, which is….

"Thank you," he says, and he means it for more than just the hair.

The beginnings of a blush spread over Abbacchio's face. "It's nothing."

And Buccellati wants to argue back that it's _not_ , but for now he settles into the way Abbacchio grabs his hand and tugs him towards the door.

"C'mon, the others are waiting."

As he considers Abbacchio, thinks of the rest of his team all gathered around the breakfast table – Buccellati finds it easier to keep in mind that he's not alone, that he doesn't have to face everything himself.

(He still has plenty of family left.)

* * *

 **A/N:** This one feels shoddy/quick, but I kept rewriting big chunks of it, and I don't think I can really be happy with it w/o making it twice as long, but I'm trying to keep these short(er), so, I hope it's, some kinda coherent, :'D

(...Also I'm not so sure I'm good at staying on theme/prompt for these types but I promise I'm doing my best-)

Thanks for reading!


	12. Time

**A/N:** Day 12: time

Warning for Vento Aureo spoilers ahead!

* * *

This shouldn't be happening.

Buccellati's body feels hollow, the bottom of his stomach opening up and his heart falling through it, landing heavy at his toes and making it hard to run. But he has to get to Abbacchio.

Abbacchio, who's slumped over and bloody, nonresponsive.

This _can't_ be happening.

He feels like he's watching through someone else's eyes as Narancia cries. As he begs Giorno for help that won't do any good now.

Because there's Abbacchio, freshly dead, with a gaping hole in his midsection, and all Buccellati can think is that he should never have left him _alone_. With Moody Blues running, Abbacchio is – _was_ – defenseless. And being the member hottest on the trail of the boss's identity, he was even more vulnerable than usual.

But Buccellati left him there. Abandoned him. And now….

Now Narancia is sobbing, and Mista looks away, devastated, and Giorno is pale – and Buccellati – Abbacchio is –

There's no time left. They…don't have time to linger here.

Danger is prevalent, and unless they all want to end up like Abbacchio, they need to get away as soon as possible.

Their last lead is exhausted, their last hope dead at their feet, and Buccellati thinks his decaying body might just crumble right then and there. As much as he knows he needs to move, to rally everyone and get away, he can't bring himself to.

If only they had more –

If Abbacchio had had just two seconds more, he could have completed his mission. If Buccellati had been just a little quicker on the uptake – had put thought into this _at all_ – someone might have saved him, given him that chance.

But. 'If's are useless to get hung up on.

Abbacchio is dead, and Buccellati can feel that he's not far behind. He himself is barely clinging to life, he knows, scraping by on borrowed time – and as such…he was supposed to die before Abbacchio. He wasn't supposed to _lose_ him, not _now_.

He's gone, though. Soon Buccellati will be, too, and he can't help but wish for _more time_.

All it had taken was an instant.

There's blood pooling over the rocks, visible around and _straight through_ Abbacchio. Buccellati doesn't have it in him to feel sick, but a devastating sorrow swells in his chest, threatening to choke him. Suddenly he can't bear to look any longer, and he turns away, willing his feet to lead them all out of here.

He wants to cling to Abbacchio, like Narancia's doing as he pleads with all of them to _please wait a minute, Abbacchio will be back up soon, he'll be alright, won't he, Giorno, save him please_ –

But he _can't_. They don't have any time left to waste. And there's no power that can bring back the dead. Not even Gold Experience.

Buccellati's heart stopped beating what feels like a lifetime ago, but it's only started aching now. He was supposed to be the only casualty. He told Abbacchio to stay here with Moody Blues. He placed an important task into too-willing hands. He left Abbacchio _alone_.

And now Narancia is screaming for him not to do it again.

Hands shaking, Buccellati bites his lip until it bleeds. Reminds the others as much as himself that Abbacchio knew what he signed up for the moment he stepped onto that boat. This mission is their most dangerous yet, to expect to come out of it unscathed is –

 _God_ his chest hurts.

He as good as killed Abbacchio. Took all that unwavering trust and tore it apart, leading him to his death. And for what? They're no closer to figuring out the boss's identity than they were at the start.

 _They are running out of time_ ; with each breath Buccellati _doesn't_ take, he feels it more and more.

There's Abbacchio, living dying _dead_ proof. Buccellati and his remaining team don't have any time, and the man they're up against can apparently manipulate it at will, always one step ahead of the game.

And part of Buccellati wants to give up on this fight, the one all of his apparently useless struggles have culminated in, and his broken, not-beating heart makes that seem so _easy_ …he keeps himself upright and moving regardless.

He's about to usher them all out of here once and for all (to _leave Abbacchio lying there_ ) when –

Giorno calls out to him, telling him to wait. He brings renewed hope as always, because it turns out that Abbacchio's very last moments were anything but a waste.

Buccellati takes some small comfort knowing that Abbacchio didn't die in vain, and his decaying body is bolstered with renewed vigor. Just like that it's easier to keep going.

He won't waste Abbacchio's efforts.

Time isn't on his side, but he won't give up, because Abbacchio _always_ has been.

* * *

 **A/N:** Man I can't wait to watch Abbacchio die in the anime so I can cry for 20min straight and be a wreck for the rest of my life.

I'll bring fluff tomorrow!

(Also I really do want to apologize for the bad quality of some of these. I'm challenging myself and it doesn't always work out the way I want it to...but I know if I take time for rewrites I'll never post anything, haha.)

Thanks for reading! :D


	13. Tears

**A/N:** Day 13: tears

...I lied, this isn't fluff - it is, in fact, schmoop,

* * *

It's rare to see Buccellati cry, so Abbacchio thinks he can be forgiven if he stops short and hovers awkwardly at the sight, unsure of what to do. Though, he supposes, it's not like Buccellati is crying _right now_. He's just wandering the upstairs hallway, with puffy red eyes and wet eyelashes, in the middle of the night.

…Not that Abbacchio himself is really doing any better, having just left the bathroom after washing off running makeup caused by his _own_ bout of crying.

Must be a bad night all around.

Buccellati's staring right back at him, eyes soft above his tear tracks. From the rumpled state of his suit and the scruffy state of his hair, Abbacchio guesses he fell asleep at his desk again – what this has to do with Buccellati _crying_ , he doesn't know.

But he does know that now Buccellati is advancing on him, and he takes a step back automatically because oh no, absolutely not, Buccellati is not going to just –

Brush his fingers over Abbacchio's cheek, and ask, "Is everything all right?"

Abbacchio makes a sour noise in his throat by way of a response. No, everything is _not_ all right, but it's just more of the usual for him. He's been a sobbing mess on Buccellati's shoulder plenty of times before.

What's more pressing right now is how upset Buccellati is pretending not to be.

Straightening his posture, Abbacchio gives him a pointed frown, intent on _not_ letting tonight play out the usual way. Not with Buccellati looking like that. "What's wrong?"

"I asked you first," Bruno points out, and he's only now bothering to rub his own tear tracks away.

Alright, fine, if that's the way he wants to play it – Abbacchio will give a little. "I'm just having a bad night." Abbacchio hates that, as he admits it, his body feels heavy all over again and his eyes go back to stinging. The temptation to drag himself off to bed is strong, but Buccellati's misty eyes temper it astoundingly well.

Buccellati, of course, tries to make that the end of it. "Do you –"

"Your turn." Abbacchio, _of course_ , won't let him.

There's a sigh from Buccellati, longsuffering, like he can't _believe_ he has to _accept comfort_ when he could be _giving it_ instead. Tough luck. He fiddles with his hair a bit, and wipes his eyes again (and Abbacchio wants to hold his hand).

"I…" Buccellati hesitates, "had a bad dream."

It's obvious he's forcing the words to be casual, but as he speaks, a tear escapes down his cheek, and the sight of it makes Abbacchio's chest tighten. Stepping closer, he cups Buccellati's face and thumbs away the tear, because he's useless and doesn't know what to say.

"Sorry," Bruno's eyes dart off to the side, "it wasn't even real. I don't know why I'm…" he swallows, "I woke up like this."

By 'like this', Abbacchio assumes he means the crying. "Happens to the best of us," he manages to say. (Though, Abbacchio usually falls asleep crying, which was probably where tonight was going, but that's irrelevant here.) The sight of Buccellati's tears has him caught between bursting into his own and shoving them down forever. He wishes he could be more _help_.

He's still got a hand on Buccellati's cheek, though, and Buccellati reaches up to grip it in his own. Gently, he lowers them both, and uses his hold on Abbacchio's hand to lead him down the hall and back to bed.

Abbacchio allows this ( _because holding Buccellati's hand is nice_ ) because it gives him a good opening to make a certain offer.

Before Buccellati can even turn to leave, Abbacchio squeezes his hand to keep him put. "Sleep here, tonight?" He's careful to word it somewhere between a request and a question, leaving it open. (How to best comfort Buccellati is a code he has yet to fully crack, but he knows that the closeness is a comfort to _himself_ , and Buccellati is the one who started _that_ , and so.)

Buccellati's shoulders lose some of their forced posture, better matching the bags under his red-rimmed eyes. His nod is slow, but he squeezes Abbacchio's hand back as he does.

They're standing somehow closer, now, and there's something sincere on Bruno's face – something open, and Abbacchio can feel his own heartbeat.

And it's pretty damn presumptuous of him, but he leans in to brush his mouth against Buccellati's, soft and tender.

"I'll keep the nightmares away," he mumbles afterward, and it's cheesy as fuck and mostly a joke.

Buccellati, relaxed against him now, gives the tiniest ghost of an almost-smile. And Abbacchio isn't at all prepared for the way his jaw is cupped with two hands, Buccellati guiding him back in for another melt-worthy kiss.

There's probably a blush on his face, and Abbacchio's tears feel far away – though they've left him worn out. He's about as tired as Buccellati looks right now, and the longer they spend like this the more vulnerable he feels. Like he might shake apart again.

But here's Buccellati in front of him, vaguely resembling an exhausted wreck with a few fresh tear tracks. It's amazing how easy it is to keep it together when someone you care about isn't (and wait a minute is this how Bruno functions _all the time_?)

Bedtime is long overdue, and Buccellati must agree, if the way he starts unbuttoning his top is any indication. His fingers shake a little, so Abbacchio takes over for him – only to be put out of the job when Sticky Fingers unzips the whole outfit in one go, leaving everything except boxer briefs in a rumpled pile on the floor.

Oh. Right.

Bruno reaches up to remove his hair clips next, setting them aside on Abbacchio's nightstand before running his fingers through his already disheveled braid.

Too tired and full of concern to be embarrassed, Abbacchio follows the motion with his own hands. His fingers comb through soft hair as they work out tangles, and his arms come to rest over Buccellati's shoulders when he's done.

Sinking into the hold, Buccellati's hands rub over Abbacchio's waist as he wraps his arms around it. And Abbacchio can feel him drop a kiss onto his cheek, thick eyelashes fluttering against Abbacchio's face before a chin settles on his shoulder. Buccellati is hugging him proper, now, hands pressed to his back.

…So much for Abbacchio not getting flustered. He tightens his hold, returning the hug.

For a long moment they just stand there, until he feels trembles from Buccellati that at first he assumes are from the cold (because Bruno's not wearing much right now, after all), but might _actually_ be from something more heartbreaking.

Either way, Buccellati pulls away before Abbacchio can so much as ask if he wants to borrow pajamas. One of his hands lingers warm on Abbacchio's hip for a moment, and then he slips into bed as-is.

Abbacchio – already in long sleeves and sweatpants – can only follow.

As soon as he's under the covers, Buccellati suctions to him, and Abbacchio can feel the warmth of his skin through his own clothes.

"You're really not going to tell me why you were crying?" Bruno asks, a soft, sleepy murmur in Abbacchio's ear.

There's not really a reason to talk about it, Abbacchio doesn't think. He doesn't know what to say, or if words would even help. And _besides_ : "You're not going to tell me what your dream was about?"

That gets a huff of amusement from Buccellati, his breath puffing over Abbacchio's cheek.

"Sorry, but," Abbacchio continues, his face heating up, "your crying takes priority tonight." Even in the dark, and with Bruno too close to really see his expressions, Abbacchio can tell he's about to protest. So he heads him off by pressing a kiss to his forehead.

It works, and instead of arguing, Buccellati makes a content little noise. He really _must_ be tired. "…I'd rather not talk about it," he says at length, arms winding around Abbacchio and pressing him ever-closer.

And Abbacchio's bad at words anyway, so that's probably for the best – but. He turns onto his side, going for eye contact. "I'm here, if you ever want to."

Bruno squeezes him tight, burying his face in Abbacchio's chest (probably to hide his watery eyes).

He never does respond, but the way all of the tension leaves him as his breaths even out in sleep is more than enough.

* * *

 **A/N:** A lot of these take place at night bc nighttime is peak sappy hours for me personally, lol. Also OTP sharing a bed? Good shit, love it,

Thanks for reading!


	14. Valentine

**A/N:** Day 14: valentine

I haven't done enough AUs, so here's an AU

* * *

That handsome policeman is hovering by the mailbox, and given what today is, it's downright suspicious.

If he were to glance up, though, he'd probably find it just as suspicious that Buccellati is peeking out from behind his curtains at him. In fact, that's creepier, right? After all, Abbacchio passes this way on patrol often, and has even – on one memorable occasion – stopped in for lunch.

So there's nothing weird about him hanging around at all. Buccellati, on the other hand, doesn't often spy on passerby like an overly nosy neighbor.

He should cut it out.

Really.

Right now.

Before Abbacchio looks up from whatever that little blur of color he's trying to sneak into the mailbox is.

Finally peeling his eyes away, Buccellati ducks out of sight of the window.

There's a choice to make, here. He can wait inside, until Abbacchio either moves on or knocks on the door to say hi, and check the mailbox later. _Or_ , he can go out there and confront Abbacchio and his possible gift…empty handed….

Ah, dammit. In Buccellati's defense, how was he supposed to know his crush was requited…?

Well, that might be overstepping a bit. Who's to say whatever Abbacchio put in the mailbox is a Valentine's gift for him, anyway? It could be anything.

…He's looking out the window again.

Seems like Abbacchio is about to leave.

Buccellati bolts for the front door, forcing himself to slow down and act casual as he exits his house and strolls down the front walk. His feet have decided for him, apparently. "Abbacchio!" he greets, again careful to sound as normal as possible, tossing up a friendly wave as he approaches.

For his part, Abbacchio kind of freezes at the sight of him, pale face immediately flaring up pink. "Buccellati." His tone is half-surprised.

"How are you?" Buccellati is determined to keep this casual, sticking to his usual conversational distance, close to Abbacchio but not _too_ close, the mailbox on his left.

"I'm…well." Abbacchio, who has a tendency to be grumpy at the best of times, is showing no shades of that today. Instead he shuffles in place, and seems to be trying to avoid looking at the mailbox by not-staring at Buccellati. "And you?"

"I'm fine."

For the first time since they met – since Buccellati ran into Abbacchio while out on a walk – an awkward silence stretches between them. Abbacchio seems to be taking the time to compose himself, meanwhile whatever's in the mailbox becomes an elephant in the room to Buccellati.

Another choice presents itself here. He could let this pass, parting ways with Abbacchio and only seeking out his maybe-gift once he's gone. Or, he could just _happen_ _to_ check the mail while he's out here, and _coincidentally_ happen upon whatever something is inside.

 _Or_ there's the most direct approach, which falls out of his mouth before he can help it.

"Did you put something in my mailbox?"

The blush that had been receding from Abbacchio's face floods back full force, and is answer enough in and of itself. "Um – well – yes –"

That admission, along with the clumsy way it's delivered, makes Buccellati's heart flip - even though it's what he'd been hoping for. "Can I…?" he motions to said mailbox.

Abbacchio ducks his head, a futile attempt to hide his red cheeks beneath the brim of his police cap. He gives a little nod with the motion, mouth in a tight line.

So Buccellati, trying not to seem overeager, goes for it. He tugs open his mailbox to carefully remove whatever is in there. As his fingers close around it, he can tell what it is – but bringing it out into the chilly February sunshine makes his heart skip a beat all the same.

A small bouquet of wildflowers, tied with a light purple ribbon. There's a red, heart-shaped note tucked into the ribbon, with 'Bruno' written on the front of it.

He doesn't know where Abbacchio could've gotten these flowers at this time of year, but he recognizes them as ones he's pointed out on one of their walks together this past summer.

"Abbacchio, this is…." He can't even find he words to describe what this is. The best gift he's ever gotten? Overwhelmingly thoughtful? Undoubtedly romantic and therefore implicating that certain feelings are returned? _All of the above_?

"It's – " Abbacchio starts.

He goes quiet immediately, though, when he sees that Buccellati is tugging the little heart free from the ribbon, which must mean...

Buccellati flips the heart over, and sure enough, there's a note on the back, handwritten.

 _Thank you for brightening my days.  
-Leone_

And Buccellati thought he was at a loss for words before.

All he can do is stand here, staring down at the message as he hides a sappy grin behind the guise of smelling the wildflowers. He knows he's blushing, too, his face warm.

"Thank you," he manages eventually, chancing a glance at Abbacchio, hoping his sincerity shines through.

Abbacchio tugs at his uniform, clearly trying to settle into his usual businesslike stance but not quite managing it. "It's nothing," he says. And then, horribly, he _turns to leave_. "Anyway, I should get going. Have a nice –"

Transferring the note to the hand holding the flowers, Buccellati now has a free hand to grab Abbacchio's wrist and stop him in his tracks.

He _can't_ just leave this as something that might become too awkward for either of them to bring up if it's left hanging as-is. Not to mention he doesn't have anything to give Abbacchio. There has to be some way to….

"Do you want to go to dinner tonight?" he blurts out, ears burning. "I mean – restaurants might be pretty crowded, so I'd understand if you don't, but I could always cook something? If that's not –"

"I'd love to," Abbacchio says, almost as fast as Buccellati had been rambling. His eyes make contact with Buccellati's.

"Oh! Good!" Now if only he'd thought this out more. Like, formulated an actual plan. He starts by letting go of Abbacchio, before that can get weird. "Um –"

"Here." Gently, Abbacchio tugs the red heart shaped note free from Buccellati's hand, pulling a pen out of his pocket. He scribbles something down on the back of it, and then offers it back.

When Buccellati takes it, he sees that there's now a _phone number_ beneath the note.

And Abbacchio's blush is his darkest yet. "Call me? Or text, I guess, and we can…plan."

"Sure…!" There's no quelling either the butterflies in Buccellat's stomach, or the erratic beating of his heart.

"I should…really get back to work." Even though Abbacchio looks like that's the _last_ thing he wants to do right now. He hesitates, a certain sourness threatening to settle over his flustered expression.

"I'll see you later," Buccellati promises.

Just like that, Abbacchio's face brightens back up, a shy smile twitching at his mouth. "See you later." He walks away, then, slower than usual and with a cheerier wave.

Buccellati waves back, watching him until he disappears from sight. It's a close call not to outright _skip_ as he heads back to his house, and as soon as he's in he closes the door, rests his back on it, and sinks to the floor.

Note and bouquet clutched to his chest, he's unable to wipe the smile off of his face. He feels like a love-struck teenager, but he can't help it.

Thoughtlessly glancing out his window this morning was a good move, it turns out.

* * *

 **A/N:** Bruno's POV is tough for me, but I keep trying regardless,

Happy Valentine's Day, and also happy halfway point for Februabba!

Thanks for reading!


	15. Breakfast

**A/N:** Day 15: breakfast

* * *

"Leone."

That's Bruno's voice. Abbacchio's sleep-fogged brain recognizes that much, along with the fact that it's coming from very close by.

"Leone, you need to wake up."

No, he really does not need to wake up. Not even if Buccellati is the one who's trying to coax him awake. See, he's lying wrapped around something very warm, and he's _comfy_ , and today is a _day off_ , if he remembers correctly.

There are fingers poking at his back, now. With a grunt, he reaches behind himself to push the offending hand away. Whatever he's cuddled up to vibrates on a laugh at that, and _oh_. It's Bruno. Abbacchio's head is resting on his chest, an arm over his stomach and both legs tangled in his.

Well, he's _definitely_ not going to get up _now_.

"We'll miss breakfast."

Hah, like Abbacchio cares. "Fuck breakfast," he grumbles, voice muffled by Buccellati's t-shirt.

"I think Fugo's cooking," Buccellati says.

Granted, Fugo is a decent cook, but _still_. "So?"

"So: I've been lying here, smelling it for the past half hour, with you on top of me, refusing to wake up."

If Abbacchio concentrates, he guesses he can _maybe_ smell something _kind_ _of_ nice coming from the kitchen, albeit faint. "…Just have it for lunch." He prefers to breathe in Buccellati-mixed-with-fresh-cotton. It's better for sleeping. Which he'd love to get back to.

"You're awfully grumpy in the morning, aren't you?" Buccellati's lighthearted tone renders his criticism null and void.

Besides, it's not Abbacchio's fault that he's not a morning person. Or that Buccellati makes the world's most comfortable pillow. What, is he supposed to _enjoy_ leaving this cozy haven? He grunts again in response, snuggling closer to avoid facing life for as long as possible.

From the feel of it, Buccellati is playing with his hair now. If he really wants Abbacchio to get out of bed, he's doing a very bad job at convincing him to.

"We can't stay in bed all day, you know," he says, fingers busy untangling white locks.

That, in Abbacchio's humble opinion, is quitter talk. As such, he won't dignify it with a response – never mind that he's much too relaxed to argue all out.

"You're going to get hungry eventually," is the next claim Buccellati makes.

"Nn." See? He's too tired to even say the whole word 'no', he can't possibly be expected to participate in waking hours.

The hand in Abbacchio's hair stalls out, now gently rubbing at his roots. "I do have things I'd like to do today," Buccellati points out.

And damn him, why'd he have to go and _say_ that. Trying to make Abbacchio guilty.

Groaning, Abbacchio at last cracks his eyes open, aiming a glare up at Buccellati in all his unfairness. "Can't a day off ever just be a _day off_?"

Buccellati meets his grump with an amused look, his eyes sparkling in the morning sun. "I'm a busy man."

"Ngh." Abbacchio can't look at that blindingly bright face any longer, opting to close his eyes and sink back into Bruno's chest. Busy as he might be, surely five more minutes couldn't hurt….

A plush mouth presses to his forehead. It's funny that Buccellati thinks he'll somehow get Abbacchio up and at 'em like this. Joke's on him, because all this is accomplishing is making Abbacchio sleepier.

"If we don't go down soon," Buccellati tries, "the others will come looking for us."

Abbacchio clutches at Buccellat's t-shirt. No thanks; that would be one hell of a disturbance. Worse than waking up and stumbling out of bed of his own accord. "Lock the door."

"That would just start rumors."

Not fair. Abbacchio's blushing at that.

Still, Bruno has a point. The only thing worse than crawling out of bed early, would be crawling out of bed late, only to find the others whispering about whatever sexual activities he and Buccellati may or may not take part in.

Because that's none of their goddamn business, and they shouldn't even poke fun at it – but they will.

On the other hand, if they barge in, he can always just keep up the pretense of being asleep on Buccellati. He's pretty sure that's a level of embarrassment he can deal with right now, and hopefully they'll keep quiet, trying not to wake him….

Who is he kidding. Most of them lack manners and subtlety.

He wrinkles his nose, stuck imagining a handful of chatterboxes disturbing his peace.

"Fine," he grumbles eventually, "let them come."

"Oh?"

"Maybe they'll bring breakfast in bed." They won't. He knows this for a fact.

Buccellati, who also knows this for a fact, laughs a little. "Come on," he mumbles, kissing the top of Abbacchio's head this time, "you know we'll only get breakfast if we go downstairs."

It was worth a try. But Abbacchio still isn't getting up, so it's time for plan B. "I don't need breakfast."

"Well, I do." Buccellati shoots down plan B with grace. And now he's nudging at Abbacchio, trying to shift away and reclaim his legs.

Stubbornly, Abbacchio clings on, even as Buccellati starts pushing at his torso.

Despite his valiant efforts, Buccellati manages to squirm out from under him and roll off of the bed. _Rude_. As he faceplants onto an empty mattress, Abbacchio mourns the fact that he didn't think to try flat out lying on top of him to keep him in place.

That hand is back in his hair, though, stroking it away from where it fell over his face. "Don't pout," Buccellati says.

"M'not," Abbacchio lies.

Bruno takes advantage of the way he's lifted his mouth from the bed, bending to press a kiss to it. "I'll see you at breakfast."

"Hmph."

* * *

 **A/N:** Leone, aptly named, is a lazy oversized housecat.

Thanks for reading!


	16. Smile

**A/N:** Day 16: breakfast

* * *

After his partner's death, Abbacchio is sure he'll never smile again. Not that it's a conscious choice he makes - but he does notice that mustering the emotion required to smile is…not within his abilities.

It's just how he is now – the gloom overbearing, sucking the life out of him as he relives his worst mistakes again and _again_. There's no room for cheer or humor when his past weighs this heavy.

And he would've stayed there, mired in guilt, if a certain Bruno Buccellati hadn't dusted him off.

Not that he gets better all at once, or even feels better most days, but being given a renewed purpose was certainly the catalyst for _something_. Something that makes his shoulders lighter and chases the fog from his heart on occasion.

A real smile is still a long time coming, though, even then.

It starts small, his lips barely twitching at the corners thanks to some snarky comment from Fugo. The bland rebuttal from Buccellati has it going wider, but only _kind of_.

As it is, this tiny grin feels wrong on his face. A wry, pulling thing that lays crooked and raw and unpracticed. It probably looks just as bad as it feels, but Abbacchio catches himself jumping into the banter, anyway – Fugo is damn funny when he's mad.

He hopes that maybe the smile will feel a little more natural the next time it happens. Clearly, he's gotten out of the habit, and so that must be what the problem is, right? He just needs to smile more.

Easier said than done. Frowns fall into place naturally and suit him better, to his chagrin. He must be bent out of whack something awful.

Although he's never been one of those people who smiles all the time, it's still a little scary to realize that he has no idea what a proper one looks like on his face anymore. And he can't force it if he tries; any attempt goes skewed sideways, fake.

Mista's smiles are never fake, and Abbacchio supposes most people would call them contagious, even. Particularly people like Narancia, who laugh easily and often over not much at all.

Sometimes, Abbacchio thinks both of them are immature and ridiculous.

Other times, he catches his mouth upturning on its own at the antics of one or the other. An honest to god natural _smile_ that he _stifles_ because he can't let them know that they're good company. If his guard is down, they loosen him up against his will.

No matter how many of Mista's arms he shrugs off, he's still tugged into too many friendly half-hugs. And he's still whispered to conspiratorially about whatever the hell is on Mista's mind. It's usually dumb shit, but sometimes it's interesting dumb shit, and it shakes more amused grins out of him than he wants to admit.

Narancia has a similar quality to him, though Abbacchio catches himself laughing _at_ him just as often. (Laughter is another thing that feels rusty, leaving him in short sharp bursts. But it eases the whole smiling thing, so there is that.)

…An unforeseen element to the smiles-related-to-Fugo-Mista-and-especially-Narancia-for-some-reason is the…odd instance…every once in a while…that has something warm like _pride_ swelling in Abbacchio's chest. And it will slip onto his face when he least expects it. Somehow less strained than the smirks he gives their antics.

Whatever any of that means.

The more time he spends in their company, the easier it is to smile – though he'll _never_ admit that – and the worst offender for this is Buccellati, who smiles even less than Abbacchio.

But holy fuck is it stunning when he does.

Abbacchio is about bowled over the first time he sees it, it catches him so off guard. It's such a small, subtle thing, but it looks so at home on Buccellati's face. Makes him even _prettier_ , and blows Abbacchio's ugly excuse for a smile out of the water.

That's the first time he realizes he might _possibly_ have more pent up affection to give than he thought.

He wants to see that smile again. It was such a fleeting and fond expression. What causes it doesn't even matter, at this point, but Abbacchio thinks he'd die on the spot if he himself could put that smile on Buccellati's face.

Trying to do so could have disastrous consequences.

He could fail.

He could embarrass himself.

He could be too obvious and put Buccellati off his company for good.

…Abbacchio's self-preservation can be notoriously low.

The extra motivation to do well on missions isn't something he needs, but the drive to impress Buccellati gives it to him, anyway. (He gets plenty of pleased nods this way.)

The other three members of their team don't need his hand in any of their shenanigans, or his jibes added to their conversations, but the off chance that any of these would amuse Buccellati is something he doesn't want to miss. (An eye-roll or two is awarded to him for his troubles. And he enjoys himself to boot but that's not the _point_.)

Kind gestures? That's a stretch for him. Buccellati is a stoic sort, hard to _really_ get close to, and Abbacchio is…who he is. Doesn't want to overstep professional boundaries. Cares too much about making a mistake here.

Seeing that smile again = an excellent outcome that he suddenly realizes he'd risk anything for.

Getting ejected from another job and sinking back into blurred oblivion = the most undesirable (also dramatic) outcome he can think of and maybe not one of the things he should be willing to risk.

All of that aside.

Abbacchio tries. Starts with gentle, distant things.

Doing the dishes when they all eat together and it's Narancia's turn (because Narancia is tired), not agitating Fugo when it would be easiest to do so (because _Fugo_ is tired), routinely standing up first when there are _four_ of them gathered and Mista realizes (because Mista will shriek at whoever does so that they'll die first, that fuckin' weirdo)….

When those don't work, Abbacchio tries getting a tiny bit closer.

Ordering Buccellati's favorite for dinner, hanging (and _steaming_ ) his suit when he unzips it with Sticky Fingers and leaves it in a pile on the floor, fixing his hair clips after they get knocked crooked during fights….

Just a _tiny_ bit closer. Sure. Yeah.

If his heart has a tendency to pick up the pace around Buccellati, that's no one's business at all. Not even his own.

Anyway. For these he gets warm thank-you's, gentle shoulder touches, and once even calloused fingers straightening the _laces_ on his _shirt_ over his _bare chest_ –

But none of those pleasant smiles.

Which is okay, even if now Abbacchio finds himself with a handful of disgustingly domestic habits that he can't get rid of. Plus an ever growing crush.

…It's fine.

Through it all his own smiles are returning to what he assumes is their previous grandeur (if it can be called that). They don't pull as awkwardly at his face, and they aren't more exhausting than frowns anymore. Progress.

(Progress that may or may not be tied to the proximity of Buccellati.)

One day they're sitting around the table – the whole team – late at night, and Abbacchio doesn't even think Fugo's joke at Narancia's expense was _that_ funny, but he's laughing, for some reason, when a weight sags against his right shoulder.

He looks over – because he knows who's sitting there, and it _can't_ be – but sure enough there's Buccellati, leaning on him, looking at him with tired eyes.

"It's nice to see you smiling," Buccellati says, in that matter-of-fact way he has, and –

And there are those gently upturned corners, that affectionate tilt of plush lips, that sweet subtle smile on his face.

Abbacchio's heart barely survives the impact, thundering in his chest. Fugo and Narancia's bickering fades out, and he ignores the feeling of Mista's stare, because his own grin goes naturally soft on his face, and that's _new_.

"You, too," he says.

That tiny smile widens a little as Buccellati sits back up, glancing away with pink cheeks.

* * *

 **A/N:** Meant to post this one early today, but I woke up with a splitting headache and wound up sleeping the day away OTL

Thanks for reading!


	17. Mission

**A/N:** Day 17, mission

* * *

Focus, Bruno. _Focus_.

There's a mission that needs completing, small though it may seem in the grand scheme of things. Figuring out who robbed this family-owned antique shop and tracking them down is still important, because this store is supposed to be under Passione's protection. (Independent criminals aren't tolerated, the threat to revenue is too great, if you give them an inch they'll take a mile, etc, etc….)

That aside, the elderly woman who runs this shop is always kind to him. In all honesty, Buccellati would have helped her regardless, even if it wasn't good business.

There's _also_ the fact that this simple mission is a perfection opportunity to test the waters with his newest recruit; the danger level is low and the objective is straightforward. It's good training, if nothing else. The owner had been too shaken by the incident to provide an adequate description of the culprit, and the surveillance cameras only caught a grainy image, and so therefore Abbacchio's ability is perfect.

By all accounts, Buccellati would really rather not be distracted right now. He takes his work seriously, even quick tasks like this one, and under _normal_ circumstances distractions wouldn't be a problem – _but_.

The thing is…he wasn't expecting….

He's seen Moody Blues before, yes, but never from _behind_ , pre-transformation.

And it's horrible, _really_ , this is unprofessional behavior, so unlike Buccellati it's not even funny. He can control where his eyes linger, he can retain focus on what's important – it's just that…he's been caught off guard here.

The bright purple, holographic nature of the stand is eye-catching enough. Why did it have to have grey, thigh high markings that end just below –

Moody Blues is stepping behind the counter, the display on its forehead ticking away, and Buccellati finally tears his eyes away from its ass in favor of looking _anywhere_ else. Abbacchio is undeniably very handsome (if you can get past his sour attitude), which doesn't help _at all_.

This leaves Buccellati casting a glance around the antique shop instead, reminding himself that this is a job and whipping his wandering mind into shape. _Focus_.

"The video showed that he was here about thirteen hours ago, right?"

Abbacchio's voice pulls Buccellati's attention back to him, and it takes him an embarrassing second to comprehend the words enough to answer.

"Yes."

A grunt from Abbacchio, accompanied by a short nod in his stand's direction, has Buccellati refocusing on the task at hand.

"Almost got him, then," Abbacchio says, unnecessarily. Because by now Moody Blues doesn't look at all like itself, instead having adopted the sleazy appearance of the robber. It's got a gun in one hand, pointed at air as it digs in the cash register with the other hand. Spoils acquired, it darts around the counter and out the door.

Buccellati watches it go, but he can feel Abbacchio looking at him in a silent question. "Let's follow," he says, "if we're lucky, this will lead us right to him."

With a nod, Abbacchio takes off after his stand and Buccellati follows close behind. He's just patting himself on the back for setting his infatuation aside when he realizes he's made a _terrible_ mistake. Given today's circumstances, anyway.

Unfortunately Buccellati doesn't think about this until it's too late, and he's running along behind Abbacchio, and his eyes are slipping their merry way down Abbacchio's back, just to _check_.

Ogling Abbacchio makes him feel downright guilty, but he's _curious_ …he'll stop once he's answered his question.

To which the answer, apparently, is _pretty much yeah_ , though Abbacchio's outfit makes it hard to tell for sure.

…Now Buccellati is blushing, just a little, and it's definitely not from the exertion of running. He swaps to watching the breadth of Abbacchio's shoulders instead. _That's nice, too_ , his mind supplies, and he just can't catch a break today can he?

Everything he's survived and done up to this point, and this simple mission, out of all of that, has the potential to go horribly sideways – because he's rapidly developing an aesthetic crush on Abbacchio.

Fantastic.

 _Focus_. He shakes his head to clear it, and thoughts of the strength of Abbacchio's arms are replaced with the equally as bad ' _I wonder if Sticky Fingers' backside is also an accurate representation of mine_ ' _,_ which, what the _hell_ brain now is _not_ the time to –

Abbacchio stops abruptly, and Buccellati doesn't realize until he's bumping into that broad back.

(Trying _not_ to look at Abbacchio is just as hazardous as openly staring at him, it turns out. Which isn't fair.)

"Are you okay?" Abbacchio asks, penciled brows furrowing as he turns.

And Buccellati can only imagine that he looks at least a _bit_ flustered, steadying himself after running smack into Abbacchio because he wasn't paying attention to anything important, too busy pondering –

"Yes," he answers automatically, cutting off his own thoughts.

Abbacchio gives him an odd look, as if he doesn't quite buy it (and Buccellati can't even blame him for that, what with the poor job he's doing at selling it), but he ultimately lets it slide. "I think the guy's hideout is in there," he says, jerking a thumb over his shoulder.

There's Moody Blues, still transformed and paused up a fire escape, just outside a window. The building is rundown, and they're not in the best part of town, and this is _work_ , so Buccellati pulls himself together.

"Let's go then," he says. This time, not wanting to risk falling back apart, Buccellati does the smart thing and walks in front of Abbacchio. Stairs are an extra dangerous game that he refuses to play right now. "Resume the playback."

Abbacchio does as requested, and with the help of Sticky Fingers, they make their way inside. It's dark, dank, and even more rundown than the outside of the building, all peeling wallpaper and cobwebs. A quick search proves that it's empty, too, except for scattered signs of life. No criminals here, currently.

Meanwhile, Moody Blues is busy prying at a loose floorboard in the corner, stashing money amongst an already considerable pile. Here, Abbacchio pauses it again, and Sticky Fingers confiscates everything in the hiding place, storing it in various zipped pouches on Buccellati's person.

Abbacchio lets Moody Blues play out a little more, showing the thief falling asleep on the mattress in the corner. "This would've come in handy during my police days," he says, his voice off-kilter.

And when Buccellati looks at him, there's a familiar harsh frown on his face. It's the one brought on by thoughts of his past, which always triggers a certain pang in Buccellati's heart.

He doesn't know what to say – mostly because he knows there are no words that can just erase trauma like that. (And this time Abbacchio hadn't said anything bad, exactly.)

So for now, he settles on: "Fast forward a little."

As requested, Moody Blues speeds through sleeping until it's climbing out the fire escape window.

"Looks like we haven't caught up to him yet…" Abbacchio mumbles, his frown easing off.

There's only one thing for it, then. "We'll have to follow."

That frown is now completely gone, and a wry grin sits in its place, crooked on Abbacchio's face yet charming butterflies into Buccellati's stomach all the same. And he isn't at all prepared for what Abbacchio says next.

"Hope you don't mind being stuck with me for a little longer."

…Maybe this is more than just an aesthetic crush. The thrill that cartwheels into his heart at the thought of spending the day with only Abbacchio makes Buccellati wonder.

"Not at all," he says, with more composure than he feels.

He does, however, keep enough wits to walk in front for the rest of their mission.

* * *

 **A/N:** …This one's a ridiculous mess and I'm so sorry – but also I have too much fun cracking Bruno's composure in lighthearted ways? Also I wrote it in one sitting at like 2:30am. I tried to fix it up with editing, but the damage was done.

Thanks for reading,


	18. Fantasy

**A/N:** Day 18: fantasy

Wrote a fantasy AU with the longest word count yet ahaha,

Warning for references to alcoholism/drunkenness, and some self-hate, (bc I can't give Abbacchio a break, even here,)

* * *

It's dark and quiet in the forest, so even through Abbacchio's drunken stupor he catches the unmistakable sound of someone fleeing. Someone fleeing pursued by more than one attacker, no less –

–And they're all headed right in his direction.

He lies still, holding out hope that they'll change paths, because he'd been about ready to nod off when all the commotion had started up, and all he wants is to pass out peacefully under this tree here for some much needed dead-to-the-world _sleep_.

Those hopes are soon dashed, though, when someone trips gracelessly over his legs and hits the ground hard.

It's the human that's being chased, because _of course_ it's a _human_. Anyone else would've had better eyesight in the dark. Probably wouldn't have come this way in the first place.

Wouldn't currently be scrambling around Abbacchio's legs in a futile attempt to get back up amidst whispered cursing.

Whatever – or whoever – is chasing this human hasn't given up, and Abbacchio makes a probably very stupid decision that his brain nevertheless sees as his only option right now. It's late and he's sleepy and he's had too much to drink and he's _not_ getting caught up in the middle of human disputes.

So he grabs at the person, yanks them in by their arm until they land against his chest with a soft "Oomph!"

" _Sh_ ," Abbacchio hisses, busy wrapping the human in his cloak, pinning them in along his body, "stay still."

He can feel his guest breathing heavily against him, puffs of air on Abbacchio's neck and a torso expanding against his own. The human squirms only once, and then, blessedly, follows his orders.

Like this, Abbacchio keeps them both hidden until the danger – he's not quite sure what the hell this human happened to get chased by, only that they're oversized, probably not smart, and likely fae food by the morning – is past.

Then the drink and a sudden wave of exhaustion take him, and his consciousness slips away.

It's not a pleasant sleep.

Flashes of pain, of blood, knives, death – murder? – crying, a little seaside cottage with red-stained floors, panic, _a struggling body dragged out and away –_ _ **screaming**_ –

Abbacchio jerks awake with a gasp, feeling almost more tired than he fell asleep. The sunrise is leaking through the trees and right into his eyes, so he screws them back shut with a groan, stuck between curling in on himself and stretching out.

See, _this_ is why he crawled into the middle of a forest last night. Drunk him knew what he was about.

He'd been counting on the fact that being away from any villages aids his sleep, because generic dreams about the past of random places are easier to manage than ones specific to individuals. The drinking helps, too. This strategy hasn't failed him yet, so why, last night, did he –

 _Oh_.

His eyes fly open again, and sure enough they meet another pair immediately. These are blue, inquisitive, and too alert so early in the morning.

A human. There's a human, lying on his side, scant centimeters from where Abbacchio himself is collapsed.

…It's too damn early for this. He's too damn _hungover_ for this. And he came here to wallow alone, thank you very much.

…Also, wait a minute, what's a human doing in an enchanted forest, looking so relaxed?

"You're awake," the human says, lifting a hand to rest his chin on.

 _Unfortunately_ , _yes_ , Abbacchio thinks as he watches the sunlight catch on dark hair and golden skin.

Time to begin thinking of ways to get this guy to _fuck off,_ even if he's a tiny bit curious about where he came from in the first place. With a past like Abbacchio glimpsed in his dreams, he's likely to bring trouble if he sticks around, which is the last thing Abbacchio needs more of.

"I wanted to thank you for last night."

For a second Abbacchio panics over the possibility of a forgotten one night stand, because close proximity of a handsome stranger, pounding headache from too much to drink, fuzzy memories in his head – but then:

"You saved me. I thought those weres would catch me for sure."

Oh. Right. Abbacchio did do that, didn't he? If you could call it that. He barely remembers, and he's lucky it worked at all, considering werebeasts are generally clever and have excellent senses of smell.

"Can you use magic?"

Urgh – it's too early for this; can't he be satisfied with his 'thank you' and go? Why's he have to have so many questions? Doesn't he get that he's fortunate to even be _alive_?

…Still, he seems…harmless. And all he's doing is peering curiously at Abbacchio with friendly eyes.

If Abbacchio gives him an answer or two, maybe he'll go away.

"No," he grumbles. At least, he can't use magic _anymore_. Not _really_.

"Oh. Then how did you do that, last night? They couldn't sense either of us at all."

What – seriously? That's weird. Last night he wasn't lucid enough to question that kind of thing, but Abbacchio has been thinking that they just…skirted past, or got turned around in the dark. He sort of wants to think more on this, but the human is starting to look a little suspicious at his silence, so it'll have to wait. "Must've been the forest's magic."

"Hm." Lips pressed into a thin line, the human seems rightfully dubious. He changes the subject, nonetheless. "You're not from around here."

Part of Abbacchio wants to quip back with the same comment, because from what he's glimpsed of this human's past, he isn't from around here, either – but that would only create _more_ questions about himself that Abbacchio isn't in the mood to answer.

"How do you know?" he asks instead.

One eyebrow raised, the human brings up his unoccupied hand to tap at his own ear.

Ah. Right. No _elves_ live in these parts. Not natively, anyway. With a growl, Abbacchio yanks his hood over his entire head. (Not that it'll help anything _now_ , but it makes him feel better.)

"Are you from the City in the Sky?"

What the hell gave him _that_ idea? Abbacchio's nose wrinkles at just the _thought_ of that place – his chest feels hollow, his stomach fiery. Such a pretentious place. It's not even in the sky, just nestled so far up in the mountains that it might as well be.

"Is it true that the elves there all possess Future Sight?"

 _Fucking hell_ – Abbacchio hadn't even answered his _first_ question. He wrenches his hood back off, glaring down this human who doesn't know when to _shut up_. " _Yes_ that's where I'm from and _no_ I don't want to talk about it," he snarls. "Can you leave me _alone_ , now?"

The human has the grace to look sheepish, at least – although unfortunately not as taken aback or frightened as Abbacchio had been (hoping) expecting.

"Sorry," he says, "I don't meet new people often. Especially elves."

That much is obvious.

"I'm Bruno," the way-too-inquisitive human introduces.

This doesn't at all count as leaving Abbacchio alone. This is, in fact, the opposite. Bruno does realize this, right?

Head tilting a bit, Bruno goes right on talking. "You don't look well."

 _No shit._ Bitterness crawls up Abbacchio's throat and escapes through his mouth. "Being exiled will do that to you."

Bruno blinks at that, eyebrows raised, and oh, damn, Abbacchio _really_ has to start watching what he blurts out when he's mad.

"You were exiled," Bruno says, slowly, and this time it's not a question.

Grunting, Abbacchio rolls onto his back to stare up at the treetops. His head is pounding, his much-needed sleep was ruined by a perfect stranger that he drunkenly rescued, and now said perfect stranger knows his shame. Today is not off to a great start. At least Bruno is quiet now, and not asking _why_ Abbacchio got kicked out – he has _some_ tact, it would seem.

…Of course, that Bruno would completely leave him to his own devices is too much to ask. "What about your magic?"

"Well they weren't gonna let me run around and use it to disgrace them further, were they?"

"Future Sight, too?"

Ah, yes. The staple power of his people. The one that got them to be held in such a high regard in the first place. That ability to see into the future, shaky and unreliable though it may be, is coveted my mortals and immortals world-over.

" _Especially_ that." Of course Abbacchio wouldn't be allowed to keep it – but taking it away entirely is too kind of a punishment. Their leaders are crueler than that. He can feel himself scowling at the memory of pain, his powers twisting in on themselves as, "They reversed it."

"So you can see –"

"The past." And _only_ the past, _not_ at will, most of the time manifesting as dreams of whoever or whatever is closest, though sometimes he'll get nightmares of far off realms. It's inconsistent, useless, and the highest punishment his people can offer.

To an outsider this probably doesn't seem so bad, but Bruno actually sounds almost _sympathetic_ when he responds. "I…didn't know they did that."

"They don't share much with the outside world." In fact, Abbacchio could fill books upon books of everything the general population doesn't know about his people. "I'm the first to be exiled in three millennia, anyway."

Surely _that_ will get Bruno to back off, if nothing else will do the job. By now he has to realize that Abbacchio is a ruin, cast aside and disgraced for unforgivable crimes. Thus, their meeting and continued conversation is a mistake, because someone like him shouldn't be counted as decent company.

"Do you have somewhere to stay?"

"… _What_." It falls out of Abbacchio's mouth as he thinks it, and he turns his head back to the side, staring at Bruno.

"I have a cabin," Bruno elaborates, motioning behind himself, "in the hills. It's small, but there's room for two, at least. If…you want."

All right. This human is not _normal_.

"What the hell are you doing in this forest, anyway?"

Bruno seems surprised by the question, which is fair seeing as it must come out of nowhere to him, but Abbacchio needs to know the answer.

"I was running from –"

"No. This place is _enchanted_. Humans routinely die or disappear in here, right?" This forest is notorious for that kind of thing – even Abbacchio's heard of it, hence why he chose it as a hiding place. "No one in their right mind would come in here, not even to escape weres."

That seems to confuse Bruno, his eyebrows scrunching minutely and a small frown working its way onto his face. "I've…always found it peaceful."

Bruno is not your average human: confirmed.

Abbacchio takes a closer look at him, with his calloused hands and scraped up face (probably from last night's adventure). His eyes are friendly, yes, but Abbacchio remembers the dreams he had during his restless sleep, and knows that Bruno has to be hiding something.

Abbacchio's curious. And maybe Bruno has an actual bed.

That's all. Those are Abbacchio's only reasons.

He's _not_ caving at the first sign of kindness he's been shown in weeks when he says, "All right."

Bruno's face breaks into a tiny smile. He stands up, dusts himself off, and offers Abbacchio a hand.

* * *

A/N: This is based off of an AU I used to daydream about all the time years ago, and I swore I had some notes on it somewhere, but it turns out I don't? So, from what I can remember, here's this. I toyed with a couple different interpretations and even searched up prompts, but this old favorite wouldn't leave me so ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

Thanks for reading!


	19. Unrequited

**A/N:** Day 19: unrequited

Hanahaki disease AU (bc it's too much fun for me to write)

Warnings for blood, and mentioned/brief/mild gore at the end.

* * *

Abbacchio should have seen this coming from the second Buccellati had taken him in out of the rain. The minute he'd huddled Abbacchio under that umbrella, shoulders brushing as they walked back to his place for a change of clothes, he should have guessed….

He'd written off every early affectionate feeling, because Buccellati saved his life, so it would be weird if Abbacchio didn't harbor a certain fondness for him, right? The peace his mind finds when Buccellati is around is average, he tells himself, for weeks and weeks.

The problem is that it doesn't stay put at simple fondness. Holed up in his apartment, curled miserably in bed late at night, Abbacchio laments that he let it get _worse_.

Buccellati is steadfast, gruffly kind, and he places faith and trust in Abbacchio, who can no longer do so for himself.

Never mind that he's handsome.

Abbacchio is _weak_ , and so here he is downright _pining_.

He's tried to push the feelings down, but he can never bury them deep enough that they won't be unearthed by even the _tiniest_ gesture from Buccellati. The more time they spend together, the worse it gets. Abbacchio's root bound chest aches at every interaction, but there's nothing he can do, because Buccellati is now a staple of his life – one that he doesn't _want_ to go without. Then where would he be?

Around the others, he acts normal as best he can. Tells himself all the while that it's not so bad yet, maybe it'll go away.

But when he's alone – like tonight – he chokes on chrysanthemums. Of all things, _chrysanthemums_ – flowers for the dead, and here Abbacchio lies, massaging his sore throat while staring at the blossom in his hand, still damp from its journey up.

Life is so unfair it's disgusting.

Just when he's gotten comfortable, just when he's starting to be _happy_ ….

He tosses the flower onto the floor, curling up tighter as another coughing fit hits him. Petals tickle and stems scratch, and this chrysanthemum cluster comes up bloodstained. There's a little blood welling in his throat, so he swallows it down only to cough it back out alongside a few lingering petals. His hand is spattered red and he scowls at it, wiping it on the bedsheets as he shoves new flowers to the carpet with the others.

He'll deal with the mess later. As soon as he catches his breath. Or in the morning. Whichever comes first.

Somehow he falls asleep, trying not to think about Bruno – about a warm hand on his shoulder, about small pleased smiles, about a soft heart hard at the edges.

(It doesn't work.)

x

Running with lungs full of flowers is a _terrible_ idea, Abbacchio knows, but he doesn't have a choice today. Keeping up with their target through a maze of winding back alleys is a chore – but he's the one that found the guy, even _if_ Narancia the one who alerted him to their presence and caused him to bolt.

So Abbacchio has to stick around and see this through.

His breathing is only getting worse, though, his chest seizing tight with roots that dig deep.

Before long he's tripping over his own feet, vision blurring. He pulls to a stop before he passes out, sucking in as much air as he can on shallow breaths. This is _not good_ , he knows, but Fugo and Narancia are both already ahead of him, so he has to get moving _soon_.

Coughs sneak their way out among ragged breathing, and Abbacchio stumbles to lean against the side of a building, a hand pressed to his mouth and almost doubled over. _Dammit_.

There's movement in front of him. Someone pushes on his shoulder, straightening him up with one hand and pressing his back to the wall behind him. Another hand grabs his wrist, tugging his own away from his mouth.

"Abbacchio – breathe."

He's _trying_.

His new in-home garden is making that kind of _difficult_.

Abbacchio yanks his hand back from Fugo – because it is him, blurring into a recognizable shape as Abbacchio's vision clears – and coughs violently into his elbow. Something warm that's probably blood soaks his sleeve, and he can taste chrysanthemums on his tongue.

Fugo still has a hand on his shoulder, pinning him to the wall at his back. "Abbacchio, what's –"

Exhausted legs giving out, Abbacchio sinks to the ground, slipping out of Fugo's grip as he goes. His head is spinning, and he spits a mouthful of blood soaked petals off to the side. These are followed shortly by a full flower – one that he doesn't have the energy to hide from Fugo.

His chest _hurts_ , breath not coming any easier. Looks like more and more of the chrysanthemums are taking up permanent residence. Before long, they'll grow right up his throat. Choke him proper.

"You should go home," Fugo says, after a long moment – and Abbacchio _hates_ that, hates the _pity_ in his voice. "I…have to go catch up to Narancia."

Despite that, Abbacchio sits and stares at Fugo's shoes for a few solid minutes as they shuffle around, hesitant.

"Just… _go_ ," Abbacchio urges him. It makes him feel like shit, sending those two off alone when he's supposed to help – when Buccellati sent him with them for a reason. Abbacchio loves him enough to catch this disease but he can't follow simple orders?

More than anything he wants to get back up and finish his job, but he doesn't have it in him to fight for breath much longer.

Fugo nudges a foot against Abbacchio's before taking off. It's meant as a comforting gesture, Abbacchio knows – but he _also_ knows the first person Fugo will take this information to when he has the chance.

Somehow, eventually, Abbacchio hauls himself up and drags himself home.

x

"Abbacchio."

 _Shit_.

Scrambling, heart frantic, Abbacchio tries to push himself into a sitting position on his couch. Times like these, he really hates Buccellati's ability. He can't just _knock_ , like a _normal_ person, he has to barge right on in, come to stand in front of Abbacchio with a worried frown.

"Fugo told me what happened." _Of course he did_. "I can help."

 _No, you really can't_ , Abbacchio wants to tell him. He's half afraid if he opens his mouth that he'll cough up _more_ flowers, adding to the telltale pile on the floor. Or he'll say something dumb and incriminating – so he keeps it clamped shut. He opts for a shake of his head, one that he cuts short when Buccellati cups his cheek.

 _Don't_.

"You don't have to suffer like this," Buccellati says, voice tender.

Oh but he _really_ does. These feelings are inconvenient, sure, and lethal, maybe, but they're _real_ , and he _hopes_. He sinks into the comfort of that hand on his face, even as the roots in his chest tighten their hold.

"Sticky Fingers can –"

Again, Abbacchio shakes his head, displacing Buccellati's hand. It refuses to leave him, swapping to his chest, gentle fingertips brushing over his collarbone. This isn't _helping_ and he wants Bruno to leave – wants him to come closer –

"Abbacchio, I'm sorry." _Of course you are_. "I don't know who you've fallen for," _yes you do_ , _if you think a little you can figure it out_ , "but I'd rather not lose you."

Despite everything, hearing that still has Abbacchio's heart soaring. _It's you_ , _it's you_ , _it's you_. Warm hands push at his shoulders, situating him until he's relaxed against the back of the couch. _Please_ , _please_ , _please_.

Buccellati loves him, Abbacchio knows, but it's not the right _type_.

"Let me help." And Bruno's eyes are so damn _sad_.

The plant life in Abbacchio's lungs agitates with each breath he takes, and he coughs a little. He can't take much more of this – much more of those eyes, and this painful, breathless ache that's steadily getting _worse_.

So he nods. If only to stay in Buccellati's company for a little while longer.

The relief that flutters through Buccellat's expression makes it worth it. "This might hurt."

As Sticky Fingers zips him open and weeds out his lungs, Abbacchio offers no protest.

* * *

 **A/N:** Thanks for reading!


	20. Dancing

**A/N:** Day 20: dancing

Apparently, I am on an AU kick, 'cause here's another one,

Warnings for drunkenness (not Abba this time, tho!) and underage drinking depending on where you're from?

* * *

Ordinarily, Buccellati isn't one for the bar scene.

If he's going to drink, he prefers to do it at home, typically alone and in the form of a glass of wine or two with dinner. Maybe something harder if work was rough. (He appreciates the way a little alcohol gets him warm and sleepy, but being blackout drunk doesn't suit him.)

Tonight, though, he's been coaxed out by coworkers under the pretext of celebrating his recent promotion. He's _pretty sure_ they just want an excuse for a night out – considering he got the news _last week_ and has never been particularly close with any of them….

But they invited him, and it would be rude to refuse – plus, some of them can be a bit volatile, and he'd rather not get on anyone's bad side.

So he tags along. Turns out it's easy enough to slip away from being the center attention, as they all disperse with each other, off somewhere in their own conversations.

Buccellati finds himself seated at the far end of the bar, biding his time until he can slip out the door unnoticed. He's only had a couple drinks, not enough to even feel buzzed, and has taken to people watching to pass the evening.

This bar has loud, fast music, but no official dancefloor – which of course doesn't mean there's no dancing. A few patrons have made room among the tables, in the gap between them and the bar itself.

Some of his coworkers included.

Which he. Didn't really need to see. He wasn't aware that Ghiaccio could move like that, though Melone isn't a surprise. Proscuitto is more flexible than he thought.

Looks like Buccellati was right about them just wanting a night out.

…Anyway.

Plenty of other people are sitting and chatting amongst themselves, there's a small, civil crowd at the pool table…and at the back of the bar, not far from where Buccellati's sitting, there's a significantly rowdier crowd by the dartboard.

He's surprised that they haven't gotten kicked out, what with their ever-rising volume and threats of violence. And _actual_ violence. He can honestly say he's never seen plastic darts penetrate skin before tonight.

The whole group seems to be made up of unattended teenagers, which has Buccellati mentally tutting at their parents, when:

"Take turns like adults, or we're leaving."

A deep, rich voice cuts through their bickering, and Buccellati's eyes are drawn to a table against the far wall, empty except for one man.

There's a chorus of replies from the kids, ranging from grumbled agreement to cheery jibes that they _aren't_ adults, but Buccellati only half hears them on account of his attention zeroing in on who's definitely the most attractive man he's ever seen.

"Fucking brats," the man grumbles, taking a sip of his drink, black painted lips staining his glass.

Oh, hell.

Buccellati is nowhere near drunk enough for this, and so he isn't sure what gives him the courage to stand up and make his way over to that table.

It _might_ have something to do with long white hair, a tight black ( _V-neck_!) shirt stretched over muscle, and pretty eyes that are a color he can't discern even as he gets closer. Whatever-it-is pulls him the whole way to that table and leaves him there without a clue what to say.

"Hi," he starts, awkward. Better than nothing.

The man pauses with his glass halfway to his mouth, blinking up at Buccellati in what might be shock. "…Hey."

 _Now_ what? Caught in that sharp gaze, Buccellati motions uselessly to the table as nerves threaten to get the better of him. "Can I sit here?"

Eyes darting aside, the man only looks back to Buccellati when he sees that the group of teenagers is preoccupied and _mostly_ behaving. His glass hits the table with a heavy _thunk_ as he sets it down. "Yes," he says, jaw clamping shut afterwards like there's more he wanted to say.

Buccellati takes the seat across from him, figuring it's better for conversation (and hopefully less creepy than sliding on in right next to a stranger). The table is littered with a wide variety of half-finished drinks that he assumes belong to the kids, and he nudges a couple out of his way.

Maybe, if he tries hard enough, he can make this look natural. Like he strikes up pointless conversations with attractive strangers all the time and not… _never_. "I'm Bruno Buccellati." That's a good first step, right?

"…Leone Abbacchio."

"Leone," Buccellati tries, almost on accident. It tastes pretty on his tongue. (Even though that's probably super weird. Maybe he is buzzed after all. How many drinks was he on again? Only his third….)

For some reason, Abbacchio downs the rest of his drink in one go at that.

Buccellati is starting to wish that he'd brought his own drink over, instead of stupidly leaving it at the bar. At least that gives him something to fill this newly awkward silence with, albeit the most cliché question _ever_. "Can…I buy you a drink?"

"Oh – that's – thank you," Abbacchio plays with the empty glass in his hands, cheeks going pink as he stares down at the table, "but I'm actually three months sober, so…."

Ah, of course, flirting with a total stranger for the first time ever, and Buccellati puts his foot right in it. "I'm sorry, I –"

"Don't – don't worry about it," Abbacchio scrambles, physically waving it off, back to making eye contact. "I know recovering alcoholics and bars don't mix, but I have to chaperone those shitheads." Here, he tosses a thumb over his shoulder at the teenagers.

Two of them are somehow playing tug-of-war with a handful of darts, while a girl with pink hair eggs them on, and the tallest cackles, slumped over a blond who seems to be trying to quietly keep peace.

"So I've been drinking too much soda instead," Abbacchio finishes, a weak smile tugging at his mouth.

"That's sweet," and whoops Buccellati hadn't meant to say that _out loud_.

The blush on Abbacchio's face cranks up to eleven, and Buccellati catches himself thinking about how cute that looks on him.

"Um –"

"I mean – it's nice that you're looking out for them," Bruno rambles. Calm down, heart, calm _down_. You just met this guy. "They seem like a handful."

Abbacchio heaves a longsuffering sigh as he slumps back in his chair, arms folding over his stomach. "They're the fucking worst."

He says it with the tiniest hint of _fondness_ , though, and Buccellati can't stop his smile. "Oh?"

"Mm," Abbacchio confirms, _still_ flushed. "What about you? Are you…" he clears his throat, "here with anyone?"

Oh, so it's Buccellati's turn to blush at clichéd lines, is it? It was only a matter of time before Abbacchio turned the tables on him. "Just coworkers," he answers, probably a bit too fast.

Speaking of coworkers, Buccellati chances a glance over his shoulder to check on them. They've left the impromptu dancefloor, it seems – though it's no less jammed without them –and are…currently busy creating a scene by the door.

Arguing about something. Loudly.

Great.

He hopes they won't scope him out, and immediately turns back around to face the much nicer sight of Abbacchio lounging across from him.

Long fingers of one hand are fiddling with an empty glass again, and golden-purple eyes keep glancing Buccellati over, and Abbacchio even bites his lip once, and this silence is beyond pleasant so why does Buccellati panic and fill it with –

"Do you want to dance?"

That's a mistake. A big one. Buccellati is a _terrible_ dancer, and Abbacchio doesn't look like the partying type, and his friends would probably never let him hear the end of it if they saw, and he's supposed to be looking after them, anyway, so Buccellati should take that back –

"Sure. Yeah." Abbacchio is sitting up straighter, now. "I'd love to."

And that's how Buccellati finds himself lost in the crush of that pathetic excuse for a dancefloor, with a broad chest at his back, warm hands guiding his hips, and heated puffs of breath against his ear. Every once in a while, glossy black lips ghost over the shell of it, brushing through his hair, sticking a little.

He finds he's perfectly content to stay here indefinitely, with rough fingers inching their way up the front of his shirt.

It had been a tiny bit awkward at first, way out of Buccellati's comfort zone despite the pleasant company, but they've found a rhythm now – which he didn't even think he _had_ – and they slow it accordingly with the next song.

One of Abbacchio's hands slips the whole way up to rest against Buccellati's stomach as his arms wrap tight and pull him close. A chin hooks over Buccellati's shoulder, a mouth on his cheek, and he leans into the solid body behind him, grabbing at Abbacchio to keep him close.

This is…infinitely better than he envisioned tonight going. His heart is doing acrobatics in his chest, fluttering as Abbacchio's fingers brush over his bare skin. _Maybe_ –

"Abbaaaa – you fuckin', bisexual beauty –!"

A too-loud voice breaks the mood, and behind him, Abbacchio grunts as he's pulled away from Buccellati by some unknown force. Buccellati stumbles with him, entwined as they are, and tips his head back to look.

The tall kid with the beanie has an arm around Abbacchio's neck, tugging him in close despite the sour look and struggling he's getting for his trouble.

"Who's _this_?" the obviously-drunk teenager asks, gesturing at Buccellati.

" _None of your business_ , Mista," Abbacchio growls, successfully shoving Mista away with one hand while the other stays pressed to Buccellati's waist.

"Aw, c'mon," a new voice whines, and a shorter brunet squeezes between bodies to get to them. "I've never seen ya dance before – he must be special!"

"How the fuck did you find me," Abbacchio whisper-grumbles under his breath.

Despite the mildly embarrassing situation, Buccellati thinks that's downright… _cute_. Even laughs a little at it. Abbacchio's still pressed close to him, too, which is admittedly nice.

"Your white hair sticks out!" this new kid answers what was definitely a rhetorical question he wasn't meant to hear anyway, reaching up to mime patting Abbacchio on the head.

More familiar faces slip into the still sanctuary their group is forming on the otherwise swaying dancefloor, and it seems like all of Abbacchio's friends have found them, now. The quiet blond brings up the rear, and the girl with the pink hair is clapping obnoxiously above her head as she shouts, "Get some, Abba!"

"All right we're leaving," Abbacchio announces, giving a push to each of them in turn with his free hand, even as they protest at varying volumes.

Tellingly, he's still got a hand on Buccellati, fisted in his shirt now. He rests his own hand on Abbacchio's shoulder to remind him of this fact as they weave through the crowd.

"Oh – shit – sorry." Abbacchio releases him, pausing once they're clear of people to run a hand over Buccellati's side and smooth out the wrinkles he'd put in the shirt.

"It's fine." It really, _really_ is. Buccellati can tell he's blushing all the way to his ears. Abbacchio is standing so _close_ , his palm lingering on Buccellati's hip, the euphoria of dancing still draped over both of them –

For a second he thinks they might kiss – _wants_ to kiss him. But then Abbacchio clears his throat and steps back a ways, fingers flexing as they slip off of Buccellati.

"Do you, um," Abbacchio starts, interrupted by several hands reaching out to poke him, or pull at his hair, as Mista and the others taunt him from behind. He swats them all away, throwing an impressive scowl over his shoulder at all of them. "Leave me the fuck alone for five seconds – _god_ – I'm trying to –"

"Can I see you again?" Seeing as Abbacchio's busy, Buccellati thinks he better be the one to ask.

Abbacchio's attention is back on him immediately, cheeks pink, complimenting black lipstick that's more smudged than before.

"I'd love that."

* * *

 **A/N:** There is not enough dancing in this, uh-

¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

Thanks for reading!


	21. Travel

**A/N:** Day 21: travel

* * *

The thing about pretty much every mode of transportation is that it puts you in too close proximity to too many people, in Abbacchio's opinion. Trains and airplanes in particular are godawful where this is concerned, so he can't help but be grumpy when he's ushered onto either one.

As such, he's less than enthused when he hears they're taking a train up north on business. Even if it is just him and Buccellati. They'll still have to do the whole 'traveling with other passengers' thing, so he makes his usual plans to sleep for as much of the trip as he can.

…Though, when they board and Buccellati leads him to _their own private cabin_ , Abbacchio thinks he might just change his mind about this being a miserable affair.

"It'll be safer this way," Buccellati explains, slipping past Abbacchio – who's a little frozen with shock right now – to step inside. "And more peaceful."

That second point is a massive understatement, Abbacchio thinks. Last time they went somewhere, he was stuck with the world's fussiest baby behind him. _And_ they'd been attacked by enemy stand users before they even got where they were going.

Hopefully this time, they won't have to jump from the train.

By now Buccellati has taken a window seat, so Abbacchio plants himself next to him with a content sigh. He can even stretch out his legs without having to worry about kicking anyone in front of him. This, truly, is the height of luxury.

"You're the best," he mumbles, sinking into the plush bench seat.

"Thank you," Buccellati says. His nose is already buried in a book he got from somewhere, and there's a tiny, pleased smile on his face.

For once, going somewhere is shaping up to be a painless endeavor.

x

Alright, so the thing about peaceful, private travel is that it's _bland_.

Even if you're alone in a cozy train cabin with your significant other. Because said significant other is busy reading, but they still took the window seat, and the scenery is repetitive so you really don't care anyway; you'd rather be sleeping.

Abbacchio _can't_ sleep, though, because he can't get comfortable. On an exceptionally comfy seat, with ample leg room, even. Makes no sense.

It's to the point where he's pretty sure he must have passed out in normal train seating before out of sheer desperation to escape an obnoxious environment. In here there's no danger of obnoxious environments, so his brain doesn't want to turn off. That's his best guess.

The train rounds a tight corner, then, and Abbacchio – who has given up – lets his body tip into Buccellati's without bothering to stop it.

Air puffs out Buccellati's nose on a quiet grunt as he's suddenly sandwiched between Abbacchio and the wall of the train. "Leone," he says.

That's his 'I'm trying to _read_ if you don't mind,' voice, so Abbacchio sits back up with a grumble, which takes altogether too much effort.

"You can go lie down on the other side, if you can't sleep over here," Buccellati offers, gesturing at the other bench seat across the way. It's identical to this one, and being as it's devoid of Buccellati, Abbacchio might even be able to curl up properly on it.

Problem is, Abbacchio wants to be next to Bruno. So he _can't_ go over there. "I'm fine here."

"If you say so."

Buccellati is already back to reading his book, but Abbacchio knows that half of his attention is on their surroundings, attuned to him and any other trouble that might come.

Maybe that's what Abbacchio should do, too. If he keeps an eye out it might bore him to sleep – or, y'know, keep him alert, make him useful to Buccellati, helpful before their mission even starts proper…something like that.

To his credit, he manages that for all of five minutes before he's scowling up at the ceiling of the train, wishing desperately for sleep. For some release from this cruel boredom. It's not that he's even prone to boredom – it's just that everything about this is so relaxing that he _can't relax_ , or focus, and thus is left with nothing.

The next turn the train makes is mild, and in the opposite direction, but Abbacchio still thinks it counts as the perfect excuse to lean on Bruno again.

This time he gets a quick, sharp sigh, and Buccellati nudges him away with an elbow. "That one was on purpose," he accuses, one eyebrow raised, his book closed on his thumb in lieu of a bookmark.

"No it wasn't," Abbacchio lies.

Buccellati only shakes his head at him and goes back to reading, apparently not willing to give his shenanigans the time of day.

Which is fine. Abbacchio should be trying to sleep. Or looking out for danger. Not childishly falling onto Buccellati at every available –

Oh look, another turn.

This one's tighter than the first, and Abbacchio maybe hits Bruno with a _tiny_ bit more force than he intends.

Buccellati's book snaps shut, and he gives Abbacchio the most unimpressed look while still squished against the wall. "Leone, I swear –"

"That one was an actual accident," Abbacchio assures, sitting up without any coaxing to show his sincerity.

All he gets is another raised eyebrow.

"…That one was _mostly_ an accident," Abbacchio amends.

There's a little twitch at the corner of Buccellati's mouth that betrays his amusement, and preemptively ruins any reprimanding he might come out with. "Can I get back to my reading now?" he asks.

Abbacchio makes a 'go ahead' motion with his hands as he settles back into attempted relaxation.

The ride carries on in silence for a while, and Abbacchio ponders pulling that stunt just one more time. No one else is here to call him out, and Buccellati doesn't seem to _actually_ mind. Never mind that Abbacchio can't sleep. What else is he supposed to do.

All in all it's a sound decision. He keeps his eyes peeled for the next corner as best he can from his not-a-window-seat –

–But when they hit it, an arm wraps around his shoulders, pulling him in to rest against Buccellati's chest.

 _Oh_.

"There," Bruno says, shuffling around a bit until he's wedged onto the bench at an angle. Like this, he's a much better pillow for Abbacchio, both arms warm around him, book still in his hand and readable. "Happy now?"

Settling in, Abbacchio nods, because he is absolutely always happy when cuddling with Buccellati. Who knew making a minor nuisance of himself would lead to something as nice as this.

"Good." Buccellati presses a kiss into his hair.

Abbacchio can feel himself slowly melting against him, and it turns out that falling asleep isn't as impossible as he first thought.

* * *

 **A/N:** This one turned out...ridiculous, and nothing even happens, but I _still_ failed to get the word count under a thousand OTL

Thanks for reading.


	22. Crossover

**A/N:** Day 22: crossover

I went with Hunter x Hunter! Specifically, Hisoka and Illumi, with a heaping helping of HisoIllu, of course, (Plus a bonus Josuke at the end, bc I couldn't resist. :'D)

This is also a bit of an AU - just messing with timelines/canon events?

General warning for Hisoka, in particular how the thought of fighting a strong opponent turns him on, and he isn't shy about that.  
And a warning for brief gore/serious injuries/blood in the second segment.

* * *

"If this is a diplomatic mission, why isn't Giorno here?"

"Because," Buccellati says, back straight and shoulders square as he walks, all business, "he has family visiting."

Abbacchio's nose wrinkles, his long legs easily keeping pace with Buccellati's purposeful stride. "Right. His great-grandson, or whatever."

"Grandnephew, I think," but even as he says it, Buccellati's brow gets a confused furrow to it.

" _Whatever_." It doesn't matter exactly _how_ this weird distant relation is related. What matters is that he's taken Giorno out of commission, and so now Abbacchio is alone with Buccellati on his way to meet with the out-of-town assassin who's stirring up trouble for Passione.

…Not that Abbacchio doesn't prefer to be alone with Buccellati, but everyone else is busy with other work tonight, and this assassin has already taken out too many of Passione's members. Backup of any kind would have been nice, even if they're only supposed to talk, and Giorno – loath as Abbacchio is to admit it – makes good backup.

Not to mention: "Shouldn't this count as training for him? He wants to advance through the ranks, doesn't he?" ( _And steal Buccellati's hard-won capo position in the process_ , but that's irrelevant right now.)

"It's kind of you to care about his progress," Buccellati says. There's a secret smile on his face, barely visible in the moonlight.

That comment puts Abbacchio in a shitty position, and Buccellati knows it. He bristles for a moment at the unfairness of it all. "You know what I mean."

"We'll be fine, Leone." As they walk, Buccellati leans in to brush their shoulders together. His voice is soft with reassurance. "That's why we're showing up early, so your Moody Blues can check the place over."

He _knows_ that, but it's still nerve wracking. Abbacchio's seen this guy via Moody Blues' rewinds before, and he's seen the corpses left behind. Neither of which are reassuring. He doesn't want to see Bruno get hurt, or worse.

(Sometimes Abbacchio wishes he had a more combat oriented stand.)

They reach the hotel where they're meant to meet via the back alleyway, and Sticky Fingers zips them inside. Like this they sneak all the way to the top floor and into the appointed suite, _not_ chosen by them, as Abbacchio's sure Buccellati would have preferred.

"All right," Buccellati says once they're inside, "start a general rewind, see if anyone–"

"Oh~? What do we have here? "

The voice comes from behind, and has Abbacchio whipping around, instantly on guard. He can feel Buccellati next to him, ready.

A figure dissolves out of the shadows along the wall of the suite's dining area, tall and bizarrely dressed with hair gelled up. His golden eyes glint in the dark, an uncanny grin stretching his face into something borderline grotesque without light to illuminate it fully.

"You two are early," he says with a lilting voice.

Danger oozes off of the stranger in tangible waves. Abbacchio can feel the hair on the back of his neck standing up, his nerves on edge, and he can't help the way he takes a half step in front of Buccellati.

"And you're not who we're here to meet." Buccellati sounds no nonsense as always as he flicks on the lights.

"Don't worry," the man croons, "my dear Illumi will be here soon. "

Now that Abbacchio can see him better, this stranger is even more… _strange_. His hair is a vibrant red and there are colorful shapes painted on his face, a star below one eye and a tear drop beneath the other. His smile is no less unsettling in the light.

And suddenly, he's a hell of a lot closer than he was a moment ago, standing right in front of them. "I'm his fiancé," he introduces, eyes closing with the sheer breadth of his grin, "Hisoka."

Chills run down Abbacchio's spine, and he fights the urge to step even closer to Buccellati and away from Hisoka – this clown is barely taller than Abbacchio, but his aura makes the difference seem more dramatic.

"I take it you know who we are," Buccellati says.

"Oh yes! " Hisoka's eyes reopen with a flash, snapping onto Buccellati with an uncomfortable amount of intent as he answers. "You seem _strong_."

And what – what the _fuck_. Hisoka's voice has dropped to a purr as his eyes sweep Bruno from head to toe and back again – and now Abbacchio is fighting the urge to step in _front_ of Buccellati, to shield him from view. The scowl he levels at Hisoka must be felt, because pretty soon those attentive eyes are on him.

Face going flat, Hisoka levels him with a dull gaze. "You, not as much."

 _Be that as it may_ , who the hell does this guy think he is? Abbacchio straightens up, calling on every centimeter of his usually considerable height, glaring Hisoka down, even though that doesn't seem to faze him at all.

Then Buccellati steps in front of him, just a little, his shoulder bumping Abbacchio's chest. A warning to back off. "When will Illumi be joining us?"

"My, my – so eager to get to _business_ , aren't you?"

"That is why we're here," Buccellati reminds him.

"We don't have anything to discuss with _you_ ," Abbacchio growls, not at all fond of where Hisoka's eyes dropped to on the word 'business'.

Buccellati's fingers ghost over Abbacchio's hand, the barest touch that's probably meant to calm him down. It works well to ground him, at least – especially given the bloodlust their unexpected host is leaking in their general direction.

Never mind that lecherous gaze that Hisoka sweeps over Buccellati _again_. It's enough to have Abbacchio snatching Bruno's hand, squeezing it as he steps up level with him.

"You're a couple? " Hisoka observes, head tilting.

Abbacchio opens his mouth to answer, but Buccellati cuts him off. "Yes, this is _my_ fiancé."

Despite the circumstances, Abbacchio's stomach still goes all fluttery when he hears that. _Fiancé_.

"You don't say! We should double date sometime~. I'd so love to fight _you_ ," here Hisoka's eyes flash at Buccellati, particularly at the _open chest of his suit_ , "and I think _you_ ," here he turns to Abbacchio, "and Illumi could talk about hair."

One pointed fingernail comes up to flick at Abbacchio's hair as Hisoka speaks, and Abbacchio slaps his hand away with vigor –

– Only for his own to come away feeling _sticky_ , pulled along by an invisible force that keeps him from being able to lower it.

Hisoka's hand is held aloft, its movement guiding that of Abbacchio's. He gives Abbacchio what's clearly supposed to be a charming look. "Maybe you're not as much of a bore as you seem. You have potential. "

The air is thick with dangerous tension, getting thicker by the moment, and Abbacchio tightens his floating hand into a fist, feeling a substance with tangible give between his fingers. It must be Hisoka's stand ability, and it seems pretty damn sturdy.

Buccellati's already got Sticky Fingers halfway summoned, glancing between Hisoka and Abbacchio, likely wondering who among them is fastest.

The door to the suite clicks open, and it's a quiet, anticlimactic thing that cuts through the tension with the sheer _normalcy_ of it.

"Hisoka." There's no mistaking the disappointment in that voice. "What are you doing here?"

"Illu, dear! " Hisoka's threatening demeanor evaporates, his smile reforming, and he releases whatever hold he'd had over Abbacchio's hand. "I couldn't bear to be apart from –"

"Stop butting into my business."

The voice is casual with a cold edge, and as Illumi strides into view, Abbacchio thinks the softness of it doesn't quite match him. His eyes are two black pools, pupil indistinguishable from iris, and his hair is long, sleek, and darker than a starless night sky.

Abbacchio sees why Hisoka mentioned the hair thing. Illumi's hair care regimen must be impeccable. That aside, it's still nowhere near as shiny as Buccellati's hair, and probably nowhere near as soft.

"Of course, Illu, of course~! As soon as you stop having fun without me." The grin on Hisoka's face is a deadly sort with lethal promises.

Illumi only brushes him off, gliding into the suite with purpose and heading for the couch. "Stick around if you want," he says, "but don't interfere."

"Wouldn't dream of it. "

"Sorry about him," Illumi says, perching himself on the very edge of a couch cushion with all the care of someone who never learned how to relax. He gestures to Hisoka, who's busy slinking around behind the couch, hovering at Illumi's back. "He thinks it's fun to be a nuisance."

Buccellati takes a seat on the couch opposite, and Abbacchio follows, sitting a little closer to him than usual for this type of thing. "Maybe you should keep track of him better, then," he grumbles, aware he's stepping out of his role but uncaring in the face of Hisoka still looking at Buccellati like he wants to _eat_ him.

(Abbacchio knows that Buccellati can take care of himself, but that doesn't stop him from wanting to protect him.)

Illumi shrugs. "I'll punish him later."

And Abbacchio could have gone his entire life without seeing the way Hisoka's whole body shudders at that. Even Buccellati shifts in discomfort, a frown in place.

"Anyway," Illumi continues, unaware, "about my business here…."

xXx

"Giorno, what's – _holy shit_ –!"

Abbacchio has known Giorno's relative for all of two seconds, and already he's decided that he can't stand him. Must be something in their genes. Hopefully he never meets the rest of this family.

"Josuke," Giorno says, and at least _he_ sounds _calm_ , "can you give me a hand?"

Josuke jumps when he's addressed, but eagerly scrambles into the foyer all the same. "Yeah – of course."

Even crumpled on the ground, trembling and half-supporting Buccellati as Abbacchio is, he can tell that Josuke is _also_ way too tall. And he's expensively dressed. Hopefully he doesn't mind getting blood on what look to be brand new clothes.

"What happened?" Giorno asks, scooting aside on his knees to make room for Josuke.

Buccellati, one hand covering the bloody hole where his left eye once was, glances at Josuke with his intact eye in a silent question.

"He's fine," Giorno assures.

"We had a bit of an…altercation," Buccellati says, then, right arm tightening around Abbacchio's shoulders.

This aggravates deep claw marks across Abbacchio's back, but he lets it melt into his countless other hurts. Between the two of them, they've already stained the carpet dark red. "A _double date_ ," he spits, and then promptly swallows a mouthful of blood.

Giorno looks a bit confused at that. Understandably so.

Next to him, Josuke is wincing at the sight of them – albeit with the face of someone who knows from experience just how bad gaping stomach wounds hurt. Maybe Abbacchio misjudged him.

"What's –"

"Hold on," Josuke mutters, and Giorno goes quiet, nodding at him.

A pink and blue stand manifests alongside Josuke, and it reaches a hand out to rest on Buccellati's head. Three seconds later, and Buccellati is no longer leaning heavily on Abbacchio, shaking with pain and exhaustion. Instead he's pulling his hand away from his face to stare at it with _both_ eyes. There's no blood on his palm.

Abbacchio's jaw drops a little, and then the stand is turning to him, and all at once every bone-deep ache disappears – even the tears in his _clothes_ seal up alongside the ones in his skin.

"There." Josuke nods to himself, his stand dissipating.

"Thank you," Giorno says.

A grin spreads over Josuke's face at that, dimpling one of his cheeks. "No problem, man!"

"He's better at that than you," Abbacchio tells Giorno. He's changed his mind – this Josuke guy is good, he can stay. Abbacchio will pay him to be their personal medic, so he never has to sit through one of Gold Experience's painful patching sessions again.

Giorno gives a grimacing grin. "His Crazy Diamond is better suited to that kind of thing," he explains.

"You even cleaned the carpet," Buccellati says, with a minor note of awe in his voice.

So Abbacchio looks, and wow, Josuke sure did restore the carpet to its former glory. Impressive. Abbacchio can look past his dated hairstyle if he keeps doing useful things like this. After the shit night they've had, this ability is a welcome change for the better.

There's an awkward sort of chuckle from Josuke, and he rubs at the back of his neck with one hand. "It's nothin', really…."

"So the diplomatic approach didn't work?" Giorno asks, back to business.

"No, it did." Buccellati runs a hand through his hair as he relaxes on the floor. His other arm lowers from around Abbacchio's shoulders to his waist, leaning on him for comfort rather than necessity now. "He agreed to move on – his work was done here, anyway. In return for not causing us future trouble, we're to turn a blind eye."

"Then why did you guys come back looking so…." Josuke trails off, gesturing vaguely at his own body, hands twisting.

Sagging against Buccellati, Abbacchio relishes in his warmth, still tired despite the thorough healing. "Like we were put through a meat grinder?" he offers.

"Yeah." To his credit, Josuke only looks a tiny bit pale. "That."

"Double date."

Buccellati sighs, nudging Abbacchio. "What Abbacchio _means_ is that we unfortunately had to fight him, along with his fiancé."

Both of Giorno's eyebrows rise. "'Fiancé'?"

"Yes." For a moment, a sour expression flits across Buccellati's face. "In the end I think we parted ways with…something like respect."

 _Respect_. Yeah, right. The list of people Abbacchio wishes he's killed is short, and actually Hisoka might be the only one on it by now.

…At least Abbacchio has a new shampoo to try. Illumi was more tolerable.

"Dinner's ready!" An unfamiliar, gruff voice calls from the direction of the kitchen, interrupting their chat. Just _how many_ strangers is Abbacchio going to be forced to deal with today before he and Bruno can collapse into bed and _sleep_?

"If you guys wanna take a break from talking about work," Josuke says, "my boyfriend is a pretty good cook."

Now that Abbacchio's paying attention, he realizes that there _is_ an unusually delicious aroma in the air. Again he amends his thoughts – Josuke and his ilk can stick around as long as they like, strangers or no.

"Sounds great."

* * *

 **A/N:** I spent forever trying to decide between HxH or DIU, bc I wanted to try characters from another franchise, but at the same time I adore Josuke (and Josuyasu,) with my entire being – and then finally my brain realized that I could do _both_.

...Also Hisoka's stand is absolutely called Bubblegum Bitch in this crossover/AU,

I had too much fun with this one, haha.

Thanks for reading!


	23. Jewelry

**A/N:** Day 23: jewelry

* * *

Abbacchio is fresh from the shower, absentmindedly squeezing the ends of his hair out with a towel when he hears the unmistaskable sound of his bedroom door unzipping.

It isn't locked, and Abbacchio always lets Buccellati when he knocks – but when Buccellati's tired, he has a tendency to default to using Sticky Fingers, which is Abbacchio's first hint that something is awry.

His _second_ hint is more of an actual confirmation, as a very obviously exhausted Buccellati comes stumbling in and lets the door seal up behind him. He's bloodied and bruised all over, hair unkempt and suit disheveled, unsteady on his feet.

Dropping his towel to rest around his neck, Abbacchio is at Buccellati's side in an instant, pressing his hands to his shoulders to both stabilize and comfort him. "What happened?"

At first all Buccellati does is shake his head, sagging forward in Abbacchio's hold with a tired sigh.

"You should sit down," Abbacchio murmurs, thumbs rubbing at Buccellati's shoulders. Looking at him from close up, Abbacchio is grateful that there doesn't seem to be any severe damage. No life-threatening injuries, only a plethora of scrapes and bruises – the worst of which is a cut on Buccellati's forehead that he'd apparently deemed bad enough to zip shut, half hidden by his bangs.

At the idea of sitting down, though, Buccellati shakes his head again. "I'm fine," he insists, amending that with a, "Mostly," when Abbacchio gives him a dubious look. He seems to be steadier on his feet already, though.

"Tsk." Stepping in closer, Abbacchio releases Buccellati's shoulders in favor of cupping his jaw in one hand. He tilts Buccellati's head a bit for a better view of the damage. Blood and dirt is smeared over his cheek, so Abbacchio picks up the still-damp end of his towel to rub it away. "I thought you just had a meeting today."

Buccellati makes a soft noise of confirmation. "Polpo contacted me after. There were some errant gang members causing trouble in the park that he wanted me to take care of."

"Don't you do enough work?" Abbacchio grumbles, too thrown for a loop at the sudden appearance of a battered Buccellati in his bedroom to bother biting his tongue, as he usually would at least _consider_ doing.

"I was the closest," Buccellati explains with a tiny shrug. "Anyway, their stands weren't very strong, but there were three of them, so they gave me more trouble than usual…."

No wonder he's roughed up. Plus, Abbacchio knows for a fact that Buccellati didn't get nearly enough sleep last night, because he'd been working late – even at breakfast this morning he'd been tired. So of course he's exhausted now.

It isn't fair, how overworked he is, Abbacchio thinks again, this time succeeding at keeping that thought to himself.

Satisfied that Buccellati's face is as clean as he can (and should) get it with just a towel, Abbacchio tosses it to the floor. He then turns his attention to the golden zipper on Buccellati's forehead, brushing aside dark bangs as he examines it. There's blood around the edges of the zipper, the surrounding skin red and sore-looking; it'll probably bruise, before long.

"You should let me clean this," he says, "and the rest of them. Properly, I mean."

Buccellati nods once, but when Abbacchio entwines their hands and moves to guide Buccellati to the bathroom, those feet stick fast as Buccelalti stays resolutely put. "Wait – I want to give you something first."

Confused, Abbacchio does as requested, watching Buccellati dig into a pocket disguised as an out of place zipper on his suit. He pulls out a small, velvet covered box that looks almost as beat up as he himself does at the moment, and offers it to Abbacchio.

 _Holy shit_. Abbacchio's heart is doing what might be somersaults in his chest as he reaches for the box with a careful hand. Dirty and dented as it is, it's still unmistakably the type used to hold jewelry, flat and a little elongated.

"Sorry it's such a mess," Buccellati says, and Abbacchio manages to unglue his eyes from the box long enough to catch the shy smile that appears and vanishes just as fast. "It got tossed around some during the fight."

"It's fine," Abbacchio assures him, running reverent hands over his gift.

Opening it is daunting in the best way, especially so with Buccellati watching, but Abbacchio does, breath caught in his throat.

Sitting pretty inside is a delicate golden necklace, with a small A-shaped charm hanging from the chain.

"It, um…" Buccellati shuffles on his feet, tucks a strand of hair behind his ear, "reminded me of your belt." He's blushing, too, visible beneath the bruises and leftover grime.

 _God_ , Abbacchio doesn't know what to say. His heart is threatening to beat out of his chest. All he can do is surge forward and kiss Buccellati, trying to be mindful of his injuries but not sure he manages it.

Then again, maybe he does, if the way Buccellati relaxes into the contact and kisses back is any indication.

Pulling away, Abbacchio stays just close enough that their mouths are still brushing. "I love it," he mumbles, steals another quick kiss, drops a third at the corner of Buccellati's lips.

That shy smile comes back, then, and _agh_ if Abbacchio kisses him _again_ is that overkill? Maybe, but he does it anyway, liking the pleased hum Buccellati lets out, the give of his plush mouth, the enthusiasm with which the kiss is returned.

He's glad that Buccellati is _okay_ , and _here_ , giving disgustingly thoughtful gifts that he picked up on the way home from work.

That combination is almost too much to handle, and Buccellati still needs to be patched up, but Abbacchio takes a short moment to free the necklace from its package with fingers that feel too clumsy. It catches the light when he holds it up.

Bruno's fingers brush over Abbacchio's as they reach up to reclaim the necklace. "Here," he mumbles, reaching around to clasp it at the back of Abbacchio's neck.

It probably looks out of place, clashing with Abbacchio's pajamas, and will likely get tangled in his wet hair – but he doesn't plan to take it off any time soon. "Thank you." And now he's _also_ blushing.

This time, to mix things up (and also hide his blush) he pulls Buccellati into his chest for a hug. He's as gentle as possible, worried for unseen bruises but wanting him close. Buccellati sinks into his arms, both hands clutching at the back of Abbacchio's shirt.

"C'mon," Abbacchio mumbles into tangled hair, "let's get you cleaned up and in bed."

* * *

 **A/N:** I have this really dumb old headcanon that Abbacchio has a love of tacky A-shaped things, and I have this headcanon because have you seen his belt,

Thanks for reading!


	24. Future

**A/N:** Day 24: future

* * *

"Who the fuck decides "I want to be a gangster when I grow up" anyway? Like – what the hell is that?"

Buccellati, laptop balanced precariously on Abbacchio's shins, looks up from his work to raise an eyebrow at him. "Everyone is different, Leone," he says, a teasing note to his voice.

Continuing to glare at the ceiling, Abbacchio shifts around on the couch in search of a more comfortable position. He jostles Buccellati and his laptop alike in the process. "It's still not normal," he grumbles, thinking not-so-fondly of Giorno.

"Well," Buccellati picks up his computer until Abbacchio has settled, and then sets it back down atop his legs, "what did you want to be when you grew up?"

Oh, that question isn't at all conducive to brightening Abbacchio's mood. He answers anyway, even though the words sit sour on his tongue. "A policeman."

Buccellati must realize his mistake, because his fingers give up tapping away at his keyboard so he can lay a warm hand on Abbacchio's knee. It's a gentle, silent apology. This is just one of the millions of reasons that Abbacchio is way too attached to him; he feels lucky to be sprawled on a couch together on a not-lazy-enough Saturday. Buccellati's company works well to keep him from spiraling down.

"I wanted to be a fisherman," Buccellati says, a much appreciated change of subject. He squeezes Abbacchio's knee before putting his hand back on work duty. "Like my father."

"Really?"

Picturing Buccellati on a boat in casual working clothes is easier than Abbacchio would have thought, and also…extremely attractive. Windswept hair. Hands with rougher callouses than they have now. Sweaters for ocean wind chill. Not bad at all.

"Mhm," Buccellati confirms. Tired blue eyes blink at the computer screen in front of him, fingers hovering paused over the keyboard. "But I think he wanted me to get an education, so I could get a better career than that."

This time, Abbacchio nudges the laptop with intent to pull Bruno out of his thoughts. "I think we both kind of missed the mark."

For his efforts, he actually gets a wry chuckle out of Buccellati, accompanied by a sideways glance. "At least the pay is better here."

"Barely," Abbacchio scoffs.

There's another little smile from Buccellati. "Speaking of work," he says, "I think I'm done for today." He shuts his laptop, leaning forward to set it on the coffee table while keeping Abbacchio's legs in place with one hand.

"Thank _fuck_." Abbacchio stretches, relaxing back into a sprawl. "You've been at it for hours."

"E-mails won't read themselves."

A valid point, but Abbacchio is too distracted to respond. Because now Buccellati is slipping out from under his legs, opting to _crawl on top of him_ instead. He lies down there, making himself at home atop Abbacchio, head pillowed on his chest.

Caught in the world's most pleasant state of shock, all Abbacchio can do is wrap his arms around Buccellati's waist. He's so _warm_ , his legs nestled comfortably between Abbacchio's.

"Some things about this line of work aren't so bad, though," Buccellati mutters, turning his head to press a kiss to Abbacchio's chest.

"Could be worse," Abbacchio agrees wholeheartedly with that sentiment, trying not to blush. In any other chain of events, who knows if he'd have been lucky enough to even _meet_ Bruno. When he rubs a hand up and down Buccellati's back, the sound he gets in response for his ministrations is heavenly.

And Buccellati wiggles _closer_ – now those lips are on Abbacchio's _neck_ , a few soft kisses falling along a path to his pulse, which is beating steadily faster. "Much worse," is breathed against his skin, making him shiver.

"There's always retirement to look forward to," he blurts out, unthinking and beyond weak to the teeth nipping at his jaw.

 _Another_ little laugh from Buccellati, lighthearted and sweet. "You're already a grumpy old man," he accuses, and that's _definitely_ a teasing note in his voice now. Not fair.

Trying to scowl doesn't work at all with Buccellati pressed so close, mouth still at work on his neck – and anyway it would only prove Buccellati _right_. Which he _isn't_. Instead he opts for poking at the softest parts of Buccellati's sides until he squirms and swats Abbacchio's fingers away.

"And you're that sweet old guy that everyone wants to like…open doors and carry groceries for, and shit."

It's not _really_ an insult, and they both know it.

Buccellati gets up on his elbows, pulling himself ever closer. He's very nearly looming over Abbacchio now, with a downright _sappy_ expression on his face as he dips his head down for a proper kiss. "We make quite a pair then," he says when they part.

Abbacchio's heart stutters at that, butterflies swooping through his stomach. _Yes_ , he wants to say, _we do_. But he's stuck between staring at Buccellati's lipstick stained mouth and his enamored blue eyes.

"Maybe we can at least make those a reality, someday," Buccellati continues, "since our original future plans were scrapped."

And Abbacchio doesn't have the words to articulate exactly how much he wants that impossible dream. So he wraps his arms tighter around Buccellati, pulling him in as he himself leans up, meeting his mouth halfway this time.

x

"By the way – you should be proud of Giorno for achieving his dream so early in life."

" _Please_ don't talk about Giorno while we're making out."

* * *

A/N: I'm so sorry this is late oh man - I was in the middle of editing it last night when the power went out, and my reliable old laptop unfortunately has a dead battery, so, I was, stuck,

But! Here it is now, and I'll post today's after work!

Thanks for reading :'D


	25. Hidden Talent

**A/N:** Day 25: hidden talent

* * *

"You can _what_?"

A blush sits high on Bruno's cheeks, his eyes focused off to the side. "I'm not good at any other kind of dancing, though."

"Yeah – but you can…." Abbacchio's brain is short circuiting.

"Pole dance," Buccellati finishes, after the silence stretches too long.

Abbacchio gapes at him, unable to do much of anything else.

The blush spreads to Buccellati's ears, and he ducks his head, suddenly very intent on scrubbing the plate in his hands. And Abbacchio is pretty sure that's all he's going to say on the matter, leaving altogether too many unanswered questions, but then:

"I…had to learn for a mission a couple years back."

Abbacchio tries _very_ hard not to be curious about the particulars of that mission. Especially whether or not it involved Buccellati performing in front of other people – the last thing he needs is to feel jealous of any potential audience. He does, after all, get plenty of alone time with Bruno these days.

It's easy not to wonder, though, when Abbacchio's mind is so busy running away from him in earnest, doing what it will with the combination of _Buccellati_ and _pole dancing_. These mental images aren't appropriate for an afternoon of mundane chores, and if he isn't careful he'll drop every dish he's supposed to be drying – _but_.

Here he is. Thinking about Buccellati's bare thighs flexing to contort around a pole as he wears next to nothing.

Abbacchio's face is heating up (with what remaining blood isn't headed _south_ ).

Just help with the _dishes_ , Abbacchio, there's no need to –

"Can you show me?"

Well, shit, what's his brain to mouth filter doing these days? Abso-fucking-lutely _nothing_ , apparently.

If it's possible for Buccellati to get even _redder_ , he does. "I'm not sure I remember much." He shoves his hands into soapy water, reemerging with a new dish to furiously scrub, dedicating all of his attention to that task. "I only took a couple of classes, but it was fun…."

Abbacchio is pretty sure that, whatever modicum of pole dancing talent Buccellati has, it's more than sufficient to be one hell of a sight. He's trying to figure out how to untie his tongue long enough to say that (oh, there you are, brain to mouth filter, right when he doesn't want you) when Buccellati speaks up again.

"Besides," he says, handing a freshly rinsed bowl off to Abbacchio, "we…don't really have equipment for it…here."

Ah. True. That's unfortunate. As is the ridiculous train of thought that Abbacchio traipses off on, wondering how much a stripper pole could actually cost and if it's within the bounds of their budget.

…Drying dishes isn't nearly enough of a distraction from the way his brain keeps supplying him with unhelpful fantasies that involve lingerie and tattoos stretching over supple, flexing muscle.

Buccellati clears his throat in the silence, shuffling his feet, and Abbacchio tugs himself out of his pile of daydreams. There's another dish being handed to him, and he takes it, noticing a pile-up on the dish rack thanks to his negligence.

He and Buccellati brush fingers on the exchange and there _sure is_ a certain kind of tension rising in the air.

"What about you?" Buccellati cuts through said tension, an awkward, tight sort of note to his voice.

"Hm?"

Facing back towards the sink, Bruno busies himself once more with washing the last of the dishes. "Do you have any weird talents that I don't know about?"

Abbacchio frowns. Does he? He can't really think of anything, and even if he does, there's no way he can top Buccellati's dancing. For a long moment, he ponders – and then as he's stacking one dry plate with one hand and picking up a wet glass with the other, he remembers.

"It's not sexy," he thinks he had better preface, "but I can juggle."

Both of Buccellati's eyebrows shoot up, and he gives Abbacchio a curious glance. "Really?" When Abbacchio nods the affirmative, Buccellati adds, "That's cute."

It is _not_. What _is_ cute is that little grin poking at the corners of Buccellati's mouth.

But now Buccellati seems content to run with this, tilting his head at Abbacchio and still looking way too amused. "Will you show me?"

"No," is Abbacchio's kneejerk response – even though that laughing edge to Bruno's voice shoots an enamored arrow right through his heart.

"Why not?"

In all honesty, Abbacchio has no good reason to refuse. Other than the fact that juggling doesn't suit him at all and if any of the others catch doing it him they'll pester him about it for the rest of his life. "You're laughing at me," he accuses of that growing smile.

"I think it's charming," Buccellati insists (which flusters Abbacchio too much, all things considered), "but it surprised me." Dishes done, he takes the towel from Abbacchio to dry his hands. "How did you learn?"

"One of the vendors along my patrol taught me." Here, Abbacchio has to be careful not to reminisce about some of the more fond memories from his old job. "I used to show kids all the time." (Thinking about it now, he can't believe he forgot. Repressing his past is indiscriminate, it turns out.)

Buccellati turns around to face Abbacchio properly, leaning back against the kitchen counter. He's still wearing that too-fond grin that makes Abbacchio weak at the knees. "But you can't show me?"

Abbacchio is at an absolute loss here. "I'll break the dishes," his last excuse is weak and he knows it. It's especially useless in the face of Buccellati's:

"Please?"

Because there's no way Abbacchio can say no to that. He's about to give in and agree when the idea of a bargain hits him, and he can't help but do some teasing of his own. "Only if you show me your pole dancing."

Despite his rapidly resurfacing blush, Buccellati looks to be seriously considering this. His eyes drag heavy over the length of Abbacchio's body, eyelids lowered when their eyes meet.

"I might be able to swing something," he says at length.

 _Holy fuck_.

"Well," Abbacchio snatches up a handful of his least favorite drinking glasses, "what are we waiting for, then?"

* * *

 **A/N:** I was stuck on this one until I remembered a joke headcanon that a friend and I discussed 5ever ago,

This content is p ridiculous so seriously: thanks for reading!


	26. Fashion

**A/N:** Day 26: fashion

* * *

"Abbacchio, could you give me a hand?"

Looking up, Abbacchio nearly chokes on his wine.

It's a well-established fact that he'll do anything Buccellati asks of him, anytime, anywhere, regardless of outer circumstances; his loyalty knows no bounds.

But Buccellati asking him for a favor dressed like _that_ is. Well. Immediate guaranteed agreement.

…If Abbacchio can stop ogling long enough to unglue his tongue from the roof of his mouth and say so, that is.

He tries to speak, fails, clears his throat, and tries again.

"What is it?"

For half a moment, Buccellati seems to hesitate. "Fugo thinks makeup would complete the look," he says eventually, tugging at his hair as though self-conscious, "and I agree – if nothing else, it'd at least make me less recognizable. But I don't usually wear it, so I was wondering if…you could help."

Haha.

Abbacchio is going to _kill_ Fugo. That kid has meddled his last.

"O-of course," Abbacchio answers, because _of course_.

"Thanks." Relief flashes across Buccellati's face, along with what _might_ be a blush – but then he turns around to head for the stairs, so Abbacchio isn't sure.

Whatever the case, Abbacchio scrambles off the couch, leaving his wine on the coffee table in favor of much sweeter company.

…Ugh, what a cheesy thought.

At least Buccellati still has his back to him, so he can't see how flustered his outfit – and the _whole damn situation_ , to be honest – is making Abbacchio.

That sheer white top is sensual murder and ought to be illegal, Abbacchio thinks. Especially when worn by _Buccellati_ , with his tanned skin, and his winding tattoo, and his _build_ ….

Abbacchio had seen his _nipples_ , for fuck's sake. Through his shirt! It's absolutely uncalled for. He wants to tag along on this mission, if only to punch out anyone who dares to stare too long at Buccellati.

And those tight, black leather pants! What the fuck!

Why'd this shady drug dealer have to operate out of a nightclub in Passione's territory, anyway? Why do Buccellati and _Mista_ have to be the ones to deal with him? Abbacchio would kill for a chance to dress up and go out for a night of ass-kicking alongside Buccellati – just imagining Buccellati _fighting_ in this outfit is hot as –

Buccellati's heels click off the bathroom tile, and Abbacchio hauls himself out of his overactive, selfish thoughts.

Now isn't the time. Buccellati asked him for a _favor_ , and seeing as Abbacchio wasn't invited on this mission, he had better do all he can to help from this end, via cutting to the chase and grabbing his makeup bag.

"I don't have anything to match your skin tone," he tells Buccellati, trying to be as casual as he can as he rifles through the bag of necessities he keeps in the bathroom closet, "but you don't need it anyway. You have great skin."

Well that was one hundred percent unnecessary to tell him, Abbacchio, you could have just _not_ explained why you're skipping the whole foundation and contouring shit. Who compliments someone's _skin_ unprompted like that.

Thankfully, Buccellati doesn't seem to mind, seeming to be preoccupied with his own thoughts. He tugs at his hair again, offering no input aside from nodding along.

"I'll probably just do something with your eyes," Abbacchio continues, burying his face back into beauty products in a futile attempt not to get flustered at the sight of a flustered Buccellati. "Maybe fill your brows a bit," _even though they're already a good shape_ , "we can skip fake lashes, too," _because the natural ones are thick enough on their own_ , "but I might have a lipstick that would look good on you," _which would damn near be_ any _color_.

…All of this is the _plan_ , anyway. If Abbacchio's hands ever stop shaking.

He doesn't know why he can't calm down. Doing someone's makeup isn't a particularly intimate affair, but this is _Buccellati_ , and Abbacchio's feelings are a _mess_. He tries to straighten them out as he straightens the lineup of beauty products on the bathroom counter, but to no avail.

"Sounds good to me," Buccellati says, sounding steadfast – but he's fiddling with his hair again.

Abbacchio reaches up to grab his hand, not sure where he gets the confidence to gently guide it back down to Buccellati's side, but, "You'll ruin your hair if you keep pulling at it."

Buccellati sighs, fingers flexing in Abbacchio's hold. "I'm not used to having my bangs pulled back," he explains, sheepish.

Oh, yeah, that is different isn't it? "It looks nice on you," though, so that's – wait Abbacchio hadn't really meant to say that out loud without fretting over whether it was a good idea or not first –

"Thanks," Buccellati mutters, and there's definitely a tiny blush on his ears now, spreading to his face. His free hand comes up to fuss with his hair, and Abbacchio grabs that one on reflex, too, getting a brief, grateful smile in return.

The sudden urge to kiss that grin sweeps through Abbacchio, but he fights it off. _Now is not the time_.

"A-anyway," Buccellati gently reclaims his hands, letting them fall to his sides, "you better get started. I'll have to head out, soon…."

Right: work. Time to focus on _work_.

…Being this close to Buccellati, though, especially when he's wearing that shirt-that-probably-doesn't-even-count-as-a-shirt, makes concentrating difficult. Plus he smells nice. And Abbacchio _has_ to focus on the strong lines of his _face_ …

Makeup is one thing Abbacchio is well-practiced in, at least, even if it's a little different doing it for someone else. His hands fall into their routine easy enough no matter how haywire the rest of him feels.

Through it all, Buccellati is the ideal model. He barely moves, except to respond to prompting as Abbacchio tips his face this way and that, asks him to open and shut his eyes. Not even the eyeliner fazes him. If anything, Buccellati seems lost in thought – and if Abbacchio knows him at all, he suspects that he's worrying about the mission.

"You alright?" Abbacchio asks when he's finished with everything except the lipstick.

Another small sigh from Buccellati as he blinks newly made-up eyes a few times, probably trying to get used to the mascara. "I really need this mission to go well," he admits, voice quiet. "We need to stay in Polpo's good books. And drugs are…."

"It'll go fine," Abbacchio assures him automatically, because this is Buccellati, and he _never_ fails. That said: "As long as you keep an eye on Mista."

As he talks, Abbacchio digs through his lipstick collection, perusing options for Buccellati – black, blue, matte black, purple, green, purple-so-dark-it-might-as-well-be-black, blackest black, _red_ ….

When he finally finds the shade he's looking for (a rose gold color that he has no idea _why_ he bought, because it's not like it looks good on _him_ ), he turns to find Buccellati scrutinizing himself in the mirror, tugging at his shirt and furrowing his brows.

Abbacchio's eyes fall to his chest to follow the movement, and he yanks them back up. He's about to step in with the lipstick when:

"What do you think?"

Buccellati accompanies that dangerous question with a gesture toward himself, so there's no doubt he's asking about his appearance. Abbacchio is forced to pause for a good while to stop himself from spitting out something embarrassing, disqualifying about the first dozen responses that cross his mind this way.

"I think you look great," he settles on, even though 'great' doesn't even _begin_ to cover it. But he can't exactly say 'that outfit _really_ makes me want to jump your bones' can he? "Just one more thing," he says, holding the lipstick aloft.

He steps in close, then, to apply it for Buccellati – which is definitely a mistake.

Paying this close of attention to Buccellati's mouth at a time like this is a recipe for disaster (never mind that Buccellati is perfectly capable of applying his own lipstick) _but_.

Here Abbacchio goes anyway, his hand cupping Buccellati's jaw to hold him steady as he smooths rose gold over the plump softness of slightly parted lips, the color complimenting tan skin….

It's almost a relief when Abbacchio caps the lipstick –

–But it's even _more_ of a relief when Buccellati immediately hauls him in for an insistent kiss. No more than a warm press of that plush mouth against his own, it's still heated enough to make Abbacchio start to _melt_.

" _God_ , I've wanted to do that all night," Abbacchio rambles as soon as they part, breathless despite the relatively chaste kiss, and there he goes again, spouting out things he meant to keep to himself.

But Buccellati looks _pleased_ – like he wants to lean back in for more, even, if the way his pupils blow wide as his eyes fall on Abbacchio's mouth is any indication.

Speaking of mouths –

"Fuck – your lipstick."

"Oh!" Buccellati raises a hand to his mouth, not-quite touching it. "Sorry, I…didn't think…."

Black has smeared with gold to form an interesting mix on Buccellati's lips. It's a fantastic look, Abbacchio thinks – but with Buccellati heading out on a mission, it can't _stay_ that way.

So he scrambles to fix it, hoping neither of them get distracted this time around.

x

As soon as Buccellati and Mista are out the door (Buccellati having left Abbacchio with the heavy promise of " _I'll see you later tonight_ ,"), Fugo elbows Abbacchio in the side.

Abbacchio bristles as he's pulled out of his half-concerned, half-aroused, all-eager-for-Buccellati-to-come-home state. "What?"

"Nice lipstick."

* * *

 **A/N:** I cheated a tiny bit with this one – found a scrapped blurb I had started for BruAbba week and went from there.

Thanks for reading!


	27. Free Day

**A/N:** Day 27: free day

I couldn't decide between a superhero AU and _more cuddling_ , so I consulted a list of cuddling prompts, saw "trapped in a small space" and then...whatever this is happened :'D

Warnings for blood and injury.

* * *

"You're Abbacchio, aren't you?"

Given the circumstances, Abbacchio is willing to overlook the fact that there should definitely be an 'officer' in front of that. "Yes," he says, "and you're Sticky Fi –"

"Bruno Buccellati," the vigilante interjects. "Please don't call me by that moniker, I keep telling everyone it doesn't fit, but they won't stop spreading it around…."

Now Abbacchio is left to wonder if he's been given a fake name, or if Buccellati really thinks it's okay to tell the police officer who's been after him and his group for _months_ now his real actual civilian identity. From personal experience, he believes Buccellati to be cleverer than the latter, but….

"What are you doing here?" Buccellati asks him.

Well, now that's a very good question isn't it? Abbacchio casts a pointed glance around the glorified box they're trapped in, dark and beyond cramped, with a single, thin sort of window towards the top for ventilation. "Hanging out," he grumbles.

Buccellati huffs out a sigh, and stuck as close as they are, Abbacchio feels it against his own neck. "I _meant_ : what are you doing in Diavolo's lair?"

"I could ask you the same," Abbacchio counters, admittedly sour and grumpy. Today has _not_ been a good day of undercover investigations. Maybe that's karma for him doing this off the books, without express permission from the higher-ups.

It had been bad enough being alone in here, but then Buccellati had been shoved in alongside him just a moment ago. Now he can't so much as twitch – it's so cramped that he's pressed flush between Buccellati and the wall at his back, with barely enough room to wiggle around.

"It seems like we share an enemy, this time," Buccellati observes, apparently getting a kick out of this fact. This sure must be hilarious, from his end, getting trapped with the cop that's tried to put a stop to his 'superhero' escapades multiple times.

"…Seems like it," Abbacchio reluctantly agrees, significantly less amused.

Buccellati makes a humored noise as he shifts around a bit, probably to try and find a comfortable position (which is _impossible_ in here, Abbacchio knows from experience). Their legs brush together with this action, and he freezes. "Are you wearing…spandex?"

" _Maybe_." Here Abbacchio had been hoping that the darkness of their undersized cell would prevent him from seeing that. Undercover work requires a _disguise_ , no matter how embarrassing.

"Thinking of taking up vigilante work?" the teasing note is blatant in Buccellati's voice.

"No," Abbacchio grouches.

"Doesn't that go against your beliefs as a police officer?" Buccellati barrels right on, as though he hasn't heard. "I seem to remember you telling me that vigilantes are 'a hindrance that –'"

"They _are_."

"'– Threatens to undermine proper law enforcement, ultimately causing more harm than good.'"

Abbacchio _did_ say that, yes. Because it's _true_. "I stand by that," he insists, because he _hasn't_ started to doubt the sincerity of his employers, or anything as crazy as that, _really_ ….

"Then what are you doing here?" Buccellati reiterates his earlier question. "I can't imagine the city sent you to investigate such a fine, upstanding businessman as _Diavolo_."

Hey now – that's not fair. It's not that _no one_ on the force suspects Diavolo of dirty play and shady, underground tendencies – it's just that it's hard to get anything moving against him. Abbacchio's superiors refuse to listen to reason; they've threatened to _fire_ him, even.

So if Abbacchio wants justice, he has to resort to…this. Going against direct orders. Rather _like_ a vigilante, sure, but that's _not_ what he is….

"I can't just turn a blind eye," he admits.

Accustomed to the darkness as he is, Abbacchio thinks he can see the edges of Buccellati's expression softening at that.

"I see."

The silence that stretches between them, then, is uncomfortably _comfortable_ , and Abbacchio doesn't know what to do about that, so he breaks it. "Don't you have powers that you can use to get us out of here?"

"Yes, but," Buccellati lifts a hand, rapping his knuckle against the side of their 'room' with an odd sort of _clang_ , "whatever this thing's made of inhibits my powers. We'll have to wait for my team to rescue us."

Abbacchio notes that he uses 'us' and not 'me', which is appreciated. Glad to know he won't be left to rot here. "Maybe that's why this box is so small," he reasons, "it's probably some rare, experimental material…I've never heard of anything like that."

"Me neither."

The conversation peters out _again_ , then, and Abbacchio hopes like hell they'll be found soon. Now that there are two of them in here, it's uncomfortably hot, never mind all the tight spandex and the pleasant scent of what must be Buccellati's shampoo –

Wait, what?

…Anyway.

It's uncomfortably hot in here, and Buccellati only seems to be gravitating _closer_. Which is odd. This thing isn't shrinking, is it? Abbacchio doesn't feel pushed forward at all, but Buccellati is definitely sagging against him. His sweaty forehead bumps Abbacchio's chin, breath warm over his chest.

Speaking of Buccellati's breathing, it sounds more labored than it did a moment ago. Uneven, almost?

"Are you alright?" Abbacchio asks on reflex, hands coming up (against his better judgement) to brace against Buccellati.

Buccellati shakes his head, and it brushes against Abbacchio with the motion. "I'll be okay," his voice sounds marginally strained, though, "I think the inhibiting properties are…getting to me."

Makes sense. Whatever this material is, its main job seems to be to weaken super-powered people.

Shuffling around to try and get them into a more manageable position, Abbacchio must jostle Buccellati more than he means to, because he hears him suck in a sharp breath through his teeth, holding it for half a moment before hissing it out.

And now Abbacchio can feel something warm and _wet_ against his side. He reaches out and presses a palm against Buccellati, recognizing the slick feel of _blood_ beneath his fingers, leaking out of Buccellati at a worrying rate.

His heart jumps into his throat. "You're injured." Way to state the _obvious_.

"It's…not bad," Buccellati lies.

The scent of iron is fast filling this cramped space, and Abbacchio can feel his own suit dampening. ' _Not bad_ '. Yeah right.

Abbacchio's hand scrabbles against the wet of Buccellati's suit, pressing down where he thinks the source of the blood is. In this position he can't see, and it's probably too dark to find it by sight anyway.

But Buccellati flinches on a grunt, so Abbacchio figures he must be close. One trembling hand reaches down to move Abbacchio's a little, presumably positioning it to apply more direct pressure. He leaves his own there, resting atop Abbacchio's.

"It doesn't seem good, either," Abbacchio points out. God, he doesn't think his hand is even covering the entire length of the cut – if this keeps up, Buccellati might –

There's a weak laugh from Buccellati, barely a shudder in his chest. He's fighting for breath in earnest now, almost entirely supported by Abbacchio and the close walls around them. "I…had it zipped shut," he explains, and _oh_.

No more powers means no more zippers. Of course.

Abbacchio doesn't bother fighting the instinct to tug Buccellati in closer, thinks it's only right to allow Buccellati's head to rest against his shoulder, to wrap his free arm around that unsteady back.

"Hang in there," he murmurs. They'll be fine, they have to be. Both of them.

For a half second, Abbacchio wonders why he's so legitimately worried over this vigilante, who's a total stranger to him and has been nothing but a thorn in his side for most of his career – but that doesn't mean he wants to see him _die…_.

"You know," Buccellati puffs against his neck, "you and I have more in common…than you realize."

Abbacchio presses his hand in tighter against that wound, earning a wince, feeling blood ooze between his fingers. "Why's that?"

"We both only want to protect people."

That stuns Abbacchio to silence – not that he's given a chance to respond, anyway, because in the next moment, the wall beside them seems to _melt_ , softening and sinking into a heap on the floor, allowing for an influx of fresher, cooler air.

A girl stands just outside the new opening, all pink hair and spandex, hands on her hips as she surveys the scene. "Looks like I didn't have to hurry and save you after all," she says, grinning.

Despite the somewhat dire circumstances, Abbacchio thinks he might be _blushing_ at that comment.

"I'm glad you did," Buccellati says. He stumbles on his way out of the box, and Abbacchio catches him carefully around the middle, easing him upright careful as he can.

The girl with the pink hair tilts her head. "You _sure_ I didn't interrupt anything?"

"No," Buccellati insists, gently brushing Abbacchio off so that he can stand on his own. Powers reactivated, he zips up the hole in his side. _He_ doesn't seem flustered by any insinuations.

"Not at all," Abbacchio confirms, _trying_ not to be flustered.

"Sure," Spice Girl – because that's who she is, Abbacchio remembers her codename now – says, dubious. "Either way, we better get out of here. What should we do about him?"

Buccellati turns to Abbacchio, giving him a long, searching look. "He shouldn't give us much more trouble."

And that's how – _completely_ by accident, mind you – Abbacchio finds himself running with Buccellati's gang, for what turns out to be the first time of many.

* * *

 **A/N:** ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

I have an odd fascination with JJBA superhero AUs, wherein I use stand names as hero aliases, bc I am lazy, uh,

Thanks for reading!


	28. Reunions

**A/N:** Day 28: reunions

(I can't believe it's the 28th already...)

* * *

Abbacchio wakes up slowly, at first not sure what it is that's woken him.

He's still in bed, he knows, but he's not completely lying down anymore. Someone is holding him, strong arms supporting his upper half as he's cradling close to a shuddering chest. The tight grip and slight rocking are comforting, but out of place and unprompted, as far as he knows.

He jolts the rest of the way awake when he realizes that there's only one person who could be holding him.

"Bruno –!"

Bruno noses aside his hair, kissing his forehead. "Leone," he mumbles into the skin, and his voice is wavering something awful, which is pretty damn alarming. It's got Abbacchio on high alert immediately.

"What's wrong?" he asks, unable to get a good view of Bruno's face, squished against his chest as he is.

In response, Abbacchio is only squeezed _closer._ He feels and hears a choked off sob, and that's about all the emotional turmoil he can take, his heart tightening in his chest at the sound.

"Bruno," Abbacchio mumbles again, lifting a hand to card through dark hair in what he hopes is a comforting move.

Bruno gives him one last lingering squeeze before he pulls back, staring at Abbacchio's face with the most heartbreaking expression, like he's in _pain_. Even in the dark, Abbacchio can tell that Bruno's eyes are red and puffy, tears on his cheeks catching the faint moonlight, his mouth trembling in an unsteady line.

"What is it?" Something like fear settles anxious in Abbacchio's stomach. He reaches up to rub away tear tracks with his thumb, but they're quickly replaced with fresh ones, and Abbacchio feels close to panic. He _never_ sees Bruno cry, especially not this much, and definitely not over nothing. His husband is always steadfast, his sincere emotions expressed subtly. "Please talk to me."

But Bruno only shakes his head, hugging Abbacchio tight to his chest, dropping more too-wet kisses over his cheeks and forehead.

At a loss, all Abbacchio can think to do is soothe. "It's okay," he murmurs, voice gentle as he clutches at Bruno, wiping away tears and letting his hands fall in a comforting slide over as much of him as he can reach. "You're okay – I'm here. I'm –"

Memories hit him, out of nowhere.

Flashes of light, color, and _pain_ , they're from a life that's not his own – but at the same time, he somehow knows it _is_ his. Bruno appears an awful lot, along with some others Abbacchio doesn't recognize, and a few he does.

Perilous missions, supernatural abilities, a horrendously failed police career…and all of it ends with an overwhelming sense of despair and a gaping hole ripped into his chest.

And then he jerks to awareness in Buccellati's arms.

"Bruno," he breathes, his mind whirring with the flood of new memories, and he _knows_. "I – you're –"

Buccellati presses a lingering kiss to his cheek, shuddering with another silent sob. There's something that resembles a smile on his face before he hides it in Abbacchio's neck. "It's so good to see you again," he mutters, voice small.

Near tears himself by now, and overwhelmed with too many emotions to count, Abbacchio clings to Buccellati in turn. "You, too."

Sniffling, Bruno pulls away from him, but keeps Abbacchio propped against himself, one arm supporting him while the other hand moves to brush over Abbacchio's cheek. "Your memories are…?"

"Yeah." Whatever strange reincarnation magic this is, Abbacchio is grateful to it for giving him one more chance. "They're – they're back."

There's a watery smile from Buccellati at that. He tucks Abbacchio's hair behind his ear, hand ultimately settling on his chest. "I couldn't believe it when I woke up here, with you sleeping next to me. I never thought I'd…I didn't think I'd ever get to hold you again."

Now that Bruno's tears have slowed to an almost-stop, Abbacchio isn't surprised to feel his own slipping unchecked down his face. "Well," he says, for what it's worth, "here I am."

Buccellati leans in to kiss away his tears, which actually isn't making the whole crying situation any better. Abbacchio is so happy he could die all over again, but he'd rather stay _here_.

"I won't leave you again," he promises, after Buccellati moves away from his face, because he wants to make eye contact as he says it. So Bruno knows he _means_ it.

" _I_ won't leave _you_ again," Buccellati corrects – and he _can't_ think that what happened to Abbacchio was his fault, can he?

Abbacchio was well aware of the risks when he signed on for this dangerous mission, he knew what he was getting into, that his stand ability would be useless to protect him. And Buccellati was only doing his job. It wasn't his fault. It was Abbacchio's, if anyone's, for letting his own guard down.

He opens his mouth to tell him as much, but Bruno only shakes his head, not open to arguments. Dipping in close, he seals his mouth over Abbacchio's in a deep kiss, one that's impossibly soft and warm.

Abbacchio tugs him closer, closer, _closer_ , until Buccellati has him wrapped up in both arms, draped half over him as they lie on the bed. He runs his hands through dark hair, down Buccellati's back, over his shoulders – everywhere he can reach, pulling him in for a new kiss every time they part.

"Never again," Buccellati mumbles into Abbacchio's mouth before his lips trace a pattern over a pale cheek.

Humming in agreement, Abbacchio nudges his nose against Bruno's face, following it with his lips. "It should be pretty easy to stick together this time," he says, stomach swooping as he remembers, "because I'm pretty sure we're married in this reality – or whatever this place is supposed to–"

Buccellati doesn't give him a chance to finish, hauling him back into another kiss, giddy laughter bubbling between them both.

This time around, Abbacchio has hope that he can do better.

* * *

 **A/N:** Somethin' sappy for the road :'D

Thanks for a fun month, and also: thanks for reading! Especially if you've read all the way to this author's note!


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